The Grey Path
by The Phoenix King
Summary: Humanity's last hope isn't even human. Called upon to walk a path of blood, valour and duty, Sagramor Tabris must raise an army, rise to power and find his inner strength if he is to save Ferelden from the Blight. Dragon Age: Origins novelization.
1. A Day for Celebration

**The Grey Path**

Chapter One: A Day for Celebration

"Why do the humans hate us?"

The sparse fire that burned in their tiny hearth had just about died when Sagramor asked his mother the question, startling the older elf from her reverie. "What do you mean, son?" Adaia asked her only child, beaming with pride as the young man practiced his letters.

"Why do the _shemlen_-"

"You know how I hate that word," Adaia interjected, frowning at the use of the derogatory word for humans.

"-I mean, the humans. Why do they hate us so much, push us around like they do? We shouldn't have to settle for living in the alienage, and we shouldn't have to let them mistreat us. Why do they do it?"

Adaia examined her son for a moment, severe grey eyes looking back at her. He was so earnest, so committed, so dutiful. He was everything a mother could ask for, and deserved far better than what life had given him. Of course, such could be said about all the elves of the Denerim Alienage. "I don't know, son. And even if I did, you think such things could be justified by that?"

"I suppose not," the young man said, pale, nimble fingers closing the book. "It just seems really unfair, that's all. You're a great warrior, Father is hard-working and smart, and Grandfather fought in the Rebellion. All that should mean something."

"You're right, it should. Sometimes though, as much as we might wish it, the world does not reward people as they deserve."

"Like Nimue," Sagramor replied, downcast.

"Yes, like Nimue," Adaia said, moving to comfort her son, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet. "Listen to me, Sagramor. This world we live in is often a terrible place and it may take much from you, Maker forbid. But you must never let it take your compassion, your honour or your sense of right and wrong. You may be tested, you may be challenged, but at the end of the day, you have to decide if you are going to be a good person. No one else can make that decision for you. Promise me, son, that whatever happens, you will choose to be a good man, and that you will never give up hope."

"I will, Mother, I promise."

"Good," Adaia said, giving her child one last final hug. "Now, son, you need to wake up, or else you're going to die."

"What?" came Sagramor's startled response, any further questions halted as he coughed blood onto his mailed fist. Collapsing onto cold, bare stone, the young elf watched as his mother began to fade away. "No, it's not my time yet…"

"Goodbye, son. I know you'll make me proud," the echo of his mother said. "Now stand up and fight, or all of Ferelden burns."

* * *

"Sagramor!"

The young elf groaned, shaking off the delirium that came with such a violent impact, the blow having caused him to take leave of his senses. For the second time that night, he coughed blood onto the stone, propping himself up with his two-handed sword and rising on unsteady legs.

"Sagramor, for the Maker's sake, _get up!_" Alistair's voice cut through the haze.

The hideous roar echoed off of the tower's confining walls, and Sagramor leapt aside, barely dodging the massive chunk of stone ripped from the very structure. The impact was neigh-deafening, while the young elf could only stare in horror at the scene before him.

Snarling in rage, the ogre scattered aside the tower guards like stray insects, sending a half-dozen armoured soldiers flying. One of the guards, bolder than the rest, drove his spear into the meat of the darkspawn creature's thigh. It repaid him in kind, grabbing the hapless soldier in his meaty fist and ripping off his head with a single bite, massive fangs tearing through flesh and armour with ease.

Alistair charged forward, shield at the ready. With every bit of strength the ten-foot tall monster possessed, it hurled the headless corpse at the advancing warrior. Alistair tried to evade the impromptu missile, but too late; it struck the leading edge of his shield, wrenching him about and sending him to the floor.

_No. Not like this. Not after all I've done and everything I've gone through. It won't end here! I won't let it!_

Roaring his own battle-cry, Sagramor Tabris raised his mother's greatsword and charged towards death, glory or whatever else awaited him on top of that cursed tower.

* * *

_A few weeks earlier…_

Sagramor fidgeted nervously as his father buttoned up the collar of his bright wedding tunic. "Damnation, father, how I am supposed to breathe in this?"

"You'll manage, son," Cyrion Tabris chuckled, beaming at his offspring with pride. "How do you feel? Are you ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be, I suppose," the young elf admitted, straightening out his attire. The collar was too small, pinching even his lanky neck, while the clothing in general was stiff and itchy despite the high quality of the bright cloth. Then again, it was a wedding outfit, and he supposed that such things were not designed to be comfortable. For the elves of the Alienages, marriage was the final step on the road to adulthood, the boundary that defined who was a productive member of the community and who was a child. It was the road that any respectable elf would have to take eventually; wed, raise a family, and become a contributing part of their tight-knit community.

Logically, Sagramor knew this, just as he knew that arranged marriages were the norm, and that taking a spouse from another alienage was encouraged to promote genetic diversity and expand family links. Moreover, he was well aware of how much money his father had spent preparing for this. Compared to most humans, Cyrion Tabris was barely above a pauper, but amongst the impoverished and downtrodden of the Denerim Alienage, he might as well have been the King of Ferelden. "I'm just nervous, I suppose."

"That is to be expected, and it's an entirely natural reaction to this," Cyrion moved to reassure him. "I'll be the first to admit I was a bundle of nerves when I first met Adaia! I don't think I settled down until a month later!" he laughed, the mirth dying quickly on his lips. "Oh, your mother would be so proud of you."

"I know, and thank you." A pause followed, full of reflection before he composed himself. "Shianni said that Soris would be waiting for me, I should check in with him before the ceremony begins," he explained, quick-witted grey eyes checking his image in the house's old mirror one last time. A wiry young man was reflected in the glass, his gaunt and narrow face giving him an almost noble, sculptural look, while his body possessed a lean, taut strength that was not readily apparent at first glance.

"Fair enough. I'll see you out there in a little while. After all, the sooner this wedding starts, the less chance you two have to escape." As Sagramor turned to leave, Cyrion cleared his throat nervously. "One last thing before you go, son. Your martial training, the swordplay, knives and whatever else your mother trained you in, best not to mention that to your betrothed."

Sagramor sighed in frustration, having long since lost patience with such warnings. Adaia had not been like many of the alienage women; while they focused on matters of hearth and home, his mother had been a warrior born, and trained her son to protect himself in a world where elves were constantly looked down upon and exploited. Even after her death several years earlier, he still followed the training routines she had introduced, frequently practicing with her old greatsword until the strain of wielding the blade brought him to exhaustion.

It had been illegal, of course. The humans who governed Ferelden's capital city of Denerim had long ago made it clear that elves who bore swords would die upon them, and on more than one occasion Sagramor had flirted with that punishment when a patrol of guardsmen nearly discovered him practicing in a back-alley. Like so much else, the freedom to bear arms was forbidden to the elves. Even so, Sagramor knew he was not the only one to have a weapon hidden; every so often the guards found a cache of bows or daggers amongst an elf's possessions, or Elder Valendrian would scold a dissenter for displaying a sword in public and risking the garrison's wrath upon them all. For Sagramor though, it was worth the risk. Adaia had died in battle with some of the city guards, defending herself nobly against their oppression and brutality, and he had vowed to never allow anyone close to him to be hurt in such a manner. "I take it you didn't mention anything."

"Well, it's not exactly something that would have made it easy to find a match for you. We don't want to seem like troublemakers, after all. Adaia made that mistake," came the conciliatory response.

Sagramor would have none of it. "The humans that killed her made an even bigger one." A passing sorrow came over him, the pain dulled by time and distance, but not eliminated. "Mother was a great warrior, and she deserved better."

A weary smile crossed Cyrion's worn and weatherbeaten face. "Yes, that she was, and she did. Well, go on then. I still have some things to do, and Soris is no doubt waiting for you."

"Of course, father. And thank you for everything."

_Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life, Sagramor Tabris. Might as well get it over with._

* * *

As Sagramor stepped into the light of the early morning sun, his thoughts turned back to Shianni's words as she roused him. "Your bride, Nesiara, she's here early!" his cousin had gushed, dragging his weary bones from the rickety old bunk bed where he slept. Shianni had been in a joyful mood; she had always been one to look on the bright side of things, and was thrilled by the wedding and the merriment it would bring.

_Marriage_, he mused, avoiding a large puddle where the path towards the alienage square had begun to crumble and moving past the freshly-painted walls of the local orphanage, by far the most well-maintained building within their district. Was he truly ready for this? He had a paying job that would help support a family, and his father had contributed a small sum to help him start his new life, but beyond that, he was out of his depth. Matters of courtship and affection were not utterly unknown to him; there had been shy looks by interested maidens, clumsy dances beneath the _vhenadahl _tree, soft kisses and caresses in darkened corners, but the idea of siring children with some woman he never met before was unnerving. He could think of a few local girls he could see himself settling down with, but a complete stranger? That would take some getting used to.

The alienage square was a symphony of voices and colours as hundreds of elves gathered for the ceremony, the sounds of laughter, conversation and drunken song reverberating through the limbs of the _vhenadahl_ and against the numerous buildings that surrounded the square. Banners and lengths of brightly-coloured cloth hung from windows and branches, while opposite the rickety wooden stage, trenchers and bowls of food had been laid out on some old tables. The elves of the alienage had little to be cheerful for; theirs were the shortest lives in Denerim, the labours the most demanding and thankless, their conditions most impoverished and squalid. So when an opportunity for joy did come around, they always made sure to make the most of it.

For this was their home. It was a labyrinth of tenements, barns and shacks that even the meanest human peasant would turn his nose up at, a walled island in the middle of the city, encircled by canals and the mighty Drakon River itself. It was a place both of refuge and segregation; where the elves could live amongst their own kind and be protected from the outside world, while the guard sealed the gates after nightfall and ruthlessly punished anyone caught without. It was the only world Sagramor had ever known; his knowledge of what lay beyond extended only to the city walls, and some days he would stand at the docks, watching the ships come and go and wondering to what exotic places they travelled. The rest of Ferelden, much less Thedas, was the subject of books and daydreams, and once he was wed, that is all it would be.

Not for the first time, he wondered if there was more to life than this, if all he could accomplish was to raise a family and scrape a living as best he could; if there was a chance to make himself into someone better than he was, to become greater. Now he supposed he would never find out.

"Is that young Sagramor I see? Hello, dear," came a woman's voice, and Sagramor turned to see an older couple approach, their eyes blooming with recognition. "Won't you say he looks like Adaia, dear? Especially around the eyes."

"I don't see it," the husband replied, clad in a plain brown shirt and pants. "Besides, love, he probably doesn't remember us."

"Do I know you?" asked Sagramor, searching his memory for the pair. "Wait, I recall that you were one of my mother's friends, ma'am, though I've forgotten your name."

"That's alright, dear," she responded in a pleasant, motherly tone. "It is still good to know you remember us a little bit. I'm Dilwyn, and this is Gethon. You're right, we were friends of your mother's, though we haven't seen much of you since she…well…"

"She wanted you more than anything," Gethon added. " It's sad she never got to see you all grown up."

"It's alright," Sagramor answered. "I miss her too."

An uncomfortable silence followed, before Gethon elected to change the subject. "So, are you excited for your big day?"

Sagramor shrugged. "To be honest, I'm a bit nervous, but once it's all done, I'm sure things will turn out well." A thought came to mind, and his curiosity demanded he voice it. "My cousin Shianni said my intended was here early. By any chance, have you met her? What's she like?"

"Well, she's a very beautiful girl," Dilwyn declared, relieved that he seemed to be accepting his betrothal so well. "Talented too; her family lives in Highever and she's an excellent craftmaker. And she's quite friendly and caring; I think you two are going to be very happy together."

"And there's no magic in her line too, don't forget about that."

"Gethon!" came Dilwyn's indignant cry.

"I'm serious!" Gethon defended himself, explaining in a patronizing fashion. "You don't want them to end up like the Suranas, do you? Their only daughter taken to the Circle and the parents dead from the grief and shame before the year was out?"

Mention of his childhood playmate and friend brought a taste of rancour into his voice. "If I had a child as wonderful as Nimue, mage or not, I would be proud," he declared, his expression daring them to prove him wrong.

"I'm sure you would, but the templars would still take her away, no matter how you felt. You'd be better off without the heartbreak, young man."

Dilwyn elbowed her husband gently in the ribs. "We just wanted to see you today and express our good wishes. It means the world to us to see you happy."

"Thank you," Sagramor said, giving a small bow of appreciation. Reservations about marriage aside, it didn't justify turning aside their goodwill or genuine sympathy. "I definitely appreciate it."

Rubbing his side, Gethon took the hint his wife gave him, reaching into his pocket. "We've saved a bit of money for this day. We'd…we'd like you to have it, to help start your new life."

Sagramor's grey eyes widened as Gethon deposited a full fifteen silver coins into his hands, more money than he'd ever held in his life. "This…this is very generous. I can't accept this," he said, but Adaia's old friends would have none of it, gently closing his fingers over the precious coins. "Are you certain about this?"

"Trust us, we'll get by. You're young and soon you'll have a family of your own, so you need it more than we do," Dilwyn reassured him. "It'll be alright."

"If you're sure," Sagramor mumbled, putting the money away. Fifteen silvers was a considerable sum for the alienage folk, and Maker knew how long the two had been saving up. "Thank you. Honestly, this is great; I'll try and put it to good use."

"We know you will," Gethon said. "Maker bless you." The rumble of a cart drew his attention, and the older elf frowned disapprovingly. "Now, that isn't good at all. I wonder what they're thinking, leaving the Alienage during a wedding!"

'They' turned out to be a small family of elves; husband, wife and daughter, their meager possessions piled onto a rickety old handcart, tattered cloaks wrapped around their bodies as they prepared to set out for the road. "What's going on, Nessa?" Sagramor asked the red-haired girl standing in obedient silence next to the cart. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything is fine, Sagramor," the girl replied, stepping back as her father looked up from securing their baggage. "We're…just leaving, that's all."

Nessa's father, a greying, weathered and imperious man, elaborated. "The human who owns our building has decided to convert it into a storage space for some of the city's merchants. We can't afford to stay anywhere else, so we're leaving Denerim. We're heading south to the army camp at Ostagar; there's some paying work there as labourers for the King's forces."

"That's quite a distance," Sagramor replied, trying to remember the details about the place he had heard in stories or read in his old atlas. It was a crumbling fortress established by the Tevinters centuries ago, an old ruin many leagues to the south that bordered a hostile wilderness full of barbarians, witches and monsters. They had all heard the rumours of war brewing to the south, of King Cailan rallying the armies of Ferelden to combat some threat, but few of them had paid such attention to it. It was a human matter, after all, and far removed from the confines of the Alienage. "Wouldn't it would be better to move to another alienage, or find work closer to here?"

"We would like to, but going to another alienage is difficult. Travel and bribes cost money, and there's no guarantee that we'd find anything. No, we're striking out for Ostagar," the old elf said in a tone that discouraged dissent. "We wish you all the best in your marriage, young one, but we must be off."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Sagramor persisted.

Nessa's father scoffed at this. "You're just a child, you can't help us," he said dismissively. "Just enjoy yourself and forget about our problems. Come on, everyone."

"Just a moment, father," Nessa interjected as the group made to leave. "I just need to speak to Sagramor in private."

Before her parents could object, Nessa was leading him by the arm into the alley behind the square. A feral cat snarled at the pair before slipping in the gap between two shacks, and Sagramor felt Nessa's petite body go rigid with tension. "I apologize for my parents; they're too proud to accept help, much less ask for it."

"I wasn't offended, Nessa, I'm more worried about you. What's the matter?"

"It's about this journey to Ostagar," she explained, eyes downcast. "My parents will labour in the army camp, and they'll expect me to do the same. And I wouldn't mind that, but…I don't like the idea of being surrounded by a bunch of human soldiers who haven't seen a woman in months." Her lively complexion paled at the thought, and Sagramor felt her small arms tighten around him. "I'm just really scared, that's all."

"Maybe I could convince your parents to let you stay? My father would be more than happy to take you in, and I'd be able to support you a bit after the marriage."

Nessa shook her head. "My father would never agree to such a thing; he's too frightened of losing me, and too proud to admit that he needs assistance from others. Besides, you'll have a wife soon, perhaps even a child! You wouldn't be able to support me for long, and it would be unfair to ask your father to do so."

"Then while I do have the power…" Sagramor said, placing ten of his newly-won silver coins in her hand. "Take them. It should be enough to help your parents find a new place."

"You can't be serious!" Nessa gasped, eyes darting between the money and her rescuer. "Where did you get this much money?"

"I'm always serious, Nessa, especially when it comes to helping my friends. If your parents ask, say you received an anonymous donation. If they really give you trouble over it, then I'll straighten them out."

Nessa gave a short laugh of relief, and the coins vanished into her apron pocket. "We could end up staying here and starting a business, or maybe go to Highever and find work there. Oh, thank you, Sagramor!" she said, throwing her arms around his neck. "You saved my family, I love you!" A small blush crept over her cheeks as she realized what she just said. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend…"

Blushing himself, Sagramor moved to reassure her, "I'm actually quite flattered, Nessa, I means a lot to here you say that. I just…"

"I know. Well, I certainly hope your bride appreciates you; you deserve it and more," the girl said, giving him a swift peck on the cheek. "No matter what happens, Sagramor, thank you for everything." The crunch of fallen leaves made her start, and she gave a small curtsey before departing, flushed with embarrassment.

"Sorry, cousin, was I interrupting something?"

Giving an exasperated sigh, Sagramor turned to see the cheeky grin on the face of his cousin Soris. "It's not what you think. I was just giving her some money to help her family stay in the city."

Soris gave a small chuckle. "And the fact that you danced with her during the Solstice festival this year had nothing to do with it?"

"Well, what was I supposed to do, cousin?" Sagramor demanded. "Let her family drag her off to some distant battlefield full of _shemlen_ soldiers?" As much as he hated to admit it, Soris' words possessed a measure of truth. He doubted whether he would do the same for the caustic-tongued Elva, or Nessa's parents had the girl not confessed her fears.

"That's my cousin; always stopping to help people," Soris admitted wryly. "So, care to celebrate the end of our independence?"

"It might not be all that bad, Soris."

Soris scoffed at this notion. "For you, maybe. Apparently, your bride is a dream come true, while mine sounds like a dying mouse."

"I'm sure she's a nice girl," Sagramor reassured him as the two walked back to the square, greeting well-wishers as they passed.

"Yeah, for the next fifty years, I'm going to be stuck with a nice girl who hides grain for the winter."

"It's Ferelden, cousin, and this in the Alienage. A bit of foresight for the winter isn't a bad thing." Sagramor paused for a moment, lost in thought. "Dilwyn and Gethon mentioned Nimue when I spoke to them."

Soris shook his head, bemused at his cousin's dour nature. "And you immediately started wondering how she's handling life in the Circle, and if we'll ever see her again. Cousin, Nimue is gone. Even if she did try to escape the Circle, we have trouble enough without the templars breathing down our necks. I miss her too, but she left when she was seven. She probably doesn't even remember us."

"You're probably right. Forgive me; I'm just feeling a bit nostalgic today." Shaking aside his concerns, Sagramor looked over to see Shianni beckoning the pair over, his red-haired cousin accompanied by the rest of the bridal party. Amongst them, a brown-haired girl admired the bright pennants of celebration, while next to her, a lovely young woman with locks of gold examined him with undisguised interest.

It was then that Sagramor saw the humans approach. There were three of them, their fine clothes and jewelled scabbards betraying them as members of the nobility, and they strutted towards the women with the arrogance born of wealth, privilege and contempt for the lower orders. To his horror, one of the _shemlen_ immediately seized the closest bridesmaid, chortling nastily as he groped her, disdainful of her pleas. "It's a party, isn't it? Grab a whore and have a good time!" An absolutely despicable laugh passed the nobleman's lips, and his gaze fell upon Shianni, who stared back defiantly. "Savour the hunt, boys. Take this little elven wench here, so young and vulnerable…"

"Touch me and I'll gut you, you pig!" Shianni spat, backing away as the _shemlen_ approached. "I'm warning you!"

"Please, my lord!" said one of the wedding guests, holding up his hands for peace. "We're celebrating a wedding!"

The lead human stormed over to the speaker, delivering a savage backhand. "Silence, worm! If I wish for the opinion of some disease-ridden knife-ear, I will ask for it!"

Hearing him utter the racist term caused Sagramor to step forward. "I know what you're thinking, cousin," Soris whispered urgently, "but maybe we shouldn't get involved."

"It's going to escalate even if we don't step in, and I won't let these humans mistreat us. Especially Shianni."

"Oh, why do you always have to fix things?" the red-haired elf declared with exasperation. "Fine, but let's try to be diplomatic then, shall we?"

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Sagramor moved to approach the belligerents. "Is there a problem here, my lords?" he asked neutrally, his grey eyes examining the three for any sign of an imminent attack.

"What's this? The two grooms come to welcome me personally?" the lead human mused, giving a mocking sneer. "Tell me, which one is yours? Is it the redhead or the blonde?"

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave here, my lord," Sagramor stated calmly, holding his ground, staring upward into the human's eyes. "This place and these people are not for you, and I'd ask that you leave us to our celebrations."

"Get a load of this elf, Vaughan!" another of the humans crowed, a heavyset figure that looked like he'd been enjoying life's pleasures considerably. "It's like an Orlesian puppy pretending to be a mabari!"

"And a disrespectful one too, Braden," the third added. "We should teach him a lesson!"

Doing his damnedest not to show any fear or concern, Sagramor spoke once more. "We are not your toys, my lord, to be broken and discarded at a whim. This is our home, these are my friends, and you are unwelcome here. I will not tell you again." Instinctively, his hand slowly moved to the hilt of the long knife he always kept on him. It was not a very dangerous weapon, the largest any of the elves were permitted to possess, and more appropriate for chopping up vegetables than striking a breathing target, but he reckoned it could do enough damage in the right place. "Leave."

Vaughan laughed derisively at the young elf's defiance. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Sagramor saw Soris give a horrified shake of his hands. "Shianni, don't-"

Vaughan turned, just in time to see Shianni swing a full bottle of mead at his skull. The girl had put all her strength into the blow, shattering the pottery and sending the depraved nobleman to the ground, poleaxed and drenched in liquor. "Not bad for a knife-ear, huh, you ass?" she snarled.

"Are you insane?" Lord Braden demanded, the jowls of his heavy cheeks trembling with indignation. "This is Vaughan Kendells, son of the Arl of Denerim!"

Shianni's eyes widened in horror. "What? Oh, Maker…"

"Perhaps his father should have taught him some better manners," said Sagramor, moving to shield his cousin and the bridal party. "Now take him and get out of here, I won't ask again."

"Oh, you've got a lot of nerve, knife-ears!" the third noble said, lifting Vaughan up as they beat a hasty retreat. "This'll go badly for you! All of you!"

As the humans departed, a tense silence descended over the wedding party and beyond. Conversations were stilled, and no few elves looked in fear towards the alienage gates for sign of reprisal, or scornfully at Shianni for daring to strike back. "Oh, I really screwed up this time," the red-haired girl moaned, looking decidedly guilty and unwilling to meet the eyes of her cousins. "I'm so sorry for spoiling everything; you're getting married, and I had to go and cause trouble for you."

"You had every right to defend yourself, Shianni," Sagramor replied in a calm tone. "Don't stress on our account."

"It'll be alright," Soris added, trying to appear confident. "He won't tell anyone an elven woman took him down."

"Soris is right, he'd become the laughingstock of Denerim. Everything will be fine, Shianni, I promise."

"I hope so," Shianni replied, sounding distinctly unconvinced. A quick glance showed that her dress and arms were stained with mead, and the girl wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I should get cleaned up."

Shianni departed back to Cyrion's home, and the two young men were left alone with their brides-to-be. "Is everybody else alright?" Soris asked.

"I think we're just shaken," the brunette answered, glancing down the path. "What was that about?"

"Looks like the Arl's son started drinking a bit early," said Soris with a nervous laugh. "Well, let's not let this ruin the day. Sagramor, this is Valora, my betrothed."

"A pleasure to meet you, Valora," Sagramor declared, giving a courtly bow to the girl, who curtsied in return. "And this must be Nesiara, if I recall your name correctly, milady," he said, addressing the blonde woman, who smiled in return.

"Ah, so you remembered," teased Nesiara. "I am lucky to finally see you with my own eyes; I have heard a great many things about you."

"Some of them good, I hope," Sagramor replied, provoking a gentle laugh from her. She was quite beautiful, he realized, and a deep blush spread over his gaunt features. "I hope there weren't any problems on the road from Highever."

"Oh no, the journey was safe, if a bit bumpy. I did notice that there were a lot of soldiers on the Coast Road though. Is that normal?"

"I don't think so. I've never left Denerim myself, but it's probably a result of the army assembling."

"Yes, I've heard some rumours about that," Nesiara said. "Do you know why that's happening, who's attacking?"

"It's not the Orlesians," came his reply as the group made their way to the pleasant shade beneath the _vhenadahl _tree. "Any invasion they launch would come over the Frostback Mountains to the west, or by the Waking Sea in the north, like they did when they conquered Ferelden during the Blessed Age. From all the rumours I've been hearing, the King is taking his forces south to the Korcari Wilds, so it might be an attack by Chasind barbarians. Still, I haven't really heard anything concrete about it, just a few details."

"You speak of these things with such knowledge, Sagramor," Nesiara said, evidently impressed. "Why is that?"

It was Soris who answered. "I would have assumed the matchmaker would have told you; our Sagramor is a bit of a scholar. He's one of the only people in the alienage who keeps books for other than burning in the winter."

"Really? What sort of books?" Nesiara asked, now genuinely intrigued.

"An old atlas detailing the lands of Thedas, for starters. A few historical tomes and stories, like the ascension of King Calenhad or the battles of the Fourth Blight. Then there are the most leisurely tomes; I have both the Tales of the Black Fox and the ballad of Ser Isaac of Clarke." He gave a somewhat embarrassed blush at the mention of the more plebeian books. "My parents thought that giving me the best education possible was important, so I could find better opportunities than simply working on the docks."

"And have you?"

"To an extent. I have a job as a clerk's assistant at one of the city's major trading guilds. It's mostly just fetch-and-carry work, but they needed someone literate to find the right records, and elves work hard but cheap." Sagramor gave a small shrug. "It's not a teribble job, to be honest, and even though I don't make nearly as much as a human in the same position, it is something, so between that and your craft skills, I think we'll have a stable future together."

"I am relieved to hear that. May I be honest with you, Sagramor?" Nesiara inquired.

"Of course."

The girl looked uncomfortable for a moment before she posed her question. "The matchmaker your father hired spoke very highly of you, and I have no doubt he was telling the truth. But I've heard a rumour…"

"About my training with a sword?" the dark-haired young elf asked, receiving a worried nod in reply. "Nesiara, listen to me. I was taught how to fight by my mother so that I might be able to defend those I care about; believe me when I say I'm not the sort of person to go out looking for trouble, okay? I promise that I would never knowingly put you in danger."

"I understand, it's just that…" Nesiara said, biting her lip thoughtfully. "Could it get you into trouble with the guards?"

"It could, but I'm much rather be prepared to defend us if necessary, and I know how to hide the sword so they won't find it. Trust me," he said, giving her a reassuring smile.

"I'm sure you're right. And thank you for trusting me with this, Sagramor. I know we've just met."

"Husbands should be faithful and honest with their wives," the young elf stated. "I must admit, I don't think I'm quite ready for marriage yet, but I'll do my best for your sake. I just hope I am worthy of you."

"Cousin, we should let them get ready," Soris' voice interjected, gesturing towards the gate towards the city marketplace.

"Well, I think the _hahren_ wanted the ceremony to happen as soon as possible-"

"Cousin," Soris replied, firmly enunciating every word, "we should let them _get_ _ready_."

Something in his tone made Sagramor pause, and he turned to the women, keeping his voice pleasant. "Soris is right, we should give you both some time to prepare yourselves. Would you mind checking in on Shianni for us, make sure she's alright?"

"Of course," Nesiara said. "We'll see you in a few minutes then."

As the women departed, Sagramor turned to Soris. "Trouble?"

"Maybe, cousin. Another human just came in through the marketplace gate. Could be one of Vaughan's, or just a random troublemaker."

Following his cousin's gaze, Sagramor spied the stranger walking through the path towards the Alienage square. He was a human of middle-years, perhaps closer to fifty judging by the grey hairs that had begun to pop up in his dark, short beard. His dark skin suggested he was Rivaini in origin, while dark hair had been pulled into a short ponytail, keeping it clear of the ears that were pierced with gold rings. More relevant, however, was the elegant yet functional silverite armour he was clad in, complete with heavy mail boots, greaves and gauntlets, while a simple longsword and a pair of long daggers were sheathed at his waist. The composite bow slung over the shoulder also spoke to his martial skill, and he had no doubt that the human was no stranger to violence and battle. The newcomer carried himself with a composed and confident bearing, almost a noble one, but the knot of anxiety Sagramor had been carrying ever since he awoke returned with a vengeance. "What's a human doing here?"

"With all those weapons, do you think he's a soldier?" Soris asked.

"No, he bears no tabard with his lord's heraldry, no crest on the armour, nothing." Was he a sellsword, perhaps? Some landless mercenary in Vaughan's employ, come to wreak revenge on behalf of his master? "We should head him off before he causes any trouble. Maybe convince him to leave before he hurts someone."

"Actually, I think it's the lads that might start things," Soris opined as the two made their approach. "Wine is flowing, and after what happened with Vaughan, I think a few of them are angry enough to do something stupid. Let's do this quickly."

The two young elves made their way to the newcomer, who was standing respectfully near the _vhenadahl_ tree and greeting those who walked past. Most of the Alienage's inhabitants, however, were steering clear of the stranger, their eyes staring fixated on each other or their food, lest he take offense to being stared at by elves and become violent. As Sagramor approached, the stranger's dark eyes seemed to glimmer with…recognition? _Who is this man, and what is he doing here?_

"Good day," said the human, giving a polite bow. "I understand congratulations are in order for your impending wedding."

"Do you have business here, human?" Sagramor asked bluntly, watching the stranger with a hawk-like intensity. "If not, I would ask that you please leave, for this is a private ceremony."

"I'm sorry, I have no intention of leaving."

Soris gaped at this, glancing about fearfully, but Sagramor held his ground against a human for the second time in less than half an hour. "As am I, but the fact of the matter remains is that things are tense here, and while I don't want to attack you, there are others who would."

The human chuckled at this. "Surely it has not escaped your notice that I am both armed and armoured. Any conflict, whether against yourself or these people you speak of, would be rather one-sided, do you not agree?"

_What's he up to?_ Sagramor mused, weighing the human's words. On the surface, he seemed to be interested in nothing more than goading the elves, but something was amiss... "Might I ask what your business is, ser? Perhaps I could help you complete it, so you could be on your way?"

"Interesting," the human stated. "He keeps his composure, even when facing down an armed and unknown human. A true gift, wouldn't you say, Valendrian?"

"I would say the world has far more use of those who know how to stay their blades," the Elder of the Denerim Alienage said, nodding in relief towards Sagramor as he shook the human's hand. "It is good to see you again, my friend. It has been far too long."

"Elder, you know this man?" Sagramor asked in confusion. "I'm sorry, had I known you were a friend of the Elder…"

"It is quite alright. I was hardly forthcoming, and for that I apologize. I wanted to see how you reacted to the unknown, and you did so admirably. Just as your mother did."

"May I present Duncan, head of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden," Valendrian introduced the newcomer. "I would ask that you treat him as an honoured guest, for he is both a friend to me and our people."

"Of course, Elder," Sagramor replied, heart leaping. _A Grey Warden! Here!_

Of all the tales Sagramor had read over the years, those of the Grey Wardens were amongst his favourite. The fall of the Golden City was a cornerstone of the Chantry's teachings, and by this point Sagramor could recite the core of the tale by heart: how the depraved magisters of the Tevinter Imperium had sought to usurp the throne of the Maker, how He had cast them back to earth as the nightmarish darkspawn in punishment, how the darkspawn had quickly multiplied and launched a terrible war against all of Thedas that lasted for some two hundred years.

…How in the world's darkest hour, the Grey Wardens emerged; an order of noble heroes from all races and backgrounds, warriors and mages, barbarians and kings, dedicated to fighting the darkspawn wherever they existed. It was thanks to the Grey Wardens that this First Blight had been beaten back and the world saved, as it would be for the following three Blights. It was the Grey Wardens who stood vigilant against their threat for the past thousand years. They were the greatest warriors on Thedas; resolute, skilled and utterly without fear. And one of them was standing right before him.

"But my question remains unanswered," Valendrian asked, snapping Sagramor out of his awestruck state. 'Why are you here, Duncan?"

"The worst has happened: a Blight has begun. King Cailan summons the Grey Wardens to Ostagar to fight the darkspawn horde alongside his armies. I am here in Denerim on a recruiting mission, to find aspirants worthy of joining the Order, for every last one will be needed to defeat the Blight."

"A Blight…" Sagramor breathed, struck numb with horror.

"But that can't be right, cousin," Soris interjected. "The darkspawn are just myths! Stories!"

_And what stories they are,_ Sagramor thought, recalling all he knew of the past Blights; of the endless armies of darkspawn that emerge from the Deep Roads to lay waste to entire kingdoms, of the sickness they carried which poisoned people and animals and earth and sky alike, of the populations of entire towns dragged underground to Maker-only-knew what fate, of the decades of war and blood and sweat and toil of many nations needed to defeat them and drive them back into their lairs. The thought of such an evil being unleashed upon Ferelden suddenly made any concerns or worries about marriage seem petty indeed.

"Yes, I had heard the news," said the Elder. "Still, this is an awkward time. There _is_ to be a wedding- two, in fact."

If Duncan was offended at the Elder's unusually curt tone, he didn't show it. "So I see. By all means, attend to your ceremonies. My concerns can wait, for now."

"I'd like to talk to Duncan a bit more, if you don't mind, Elder," came Sagramor's request, receiving a frosty glance from Valendrian. "Just for a few minutes. I don't even think the Mother that the Chantry is sending is even here, so we do have some time."

Valendrian gave a frustrated sigh, but did not refuse him. "Just a few minutes, Sagramor. But, for the Maker's sake, don't be late for your own wedding!"

The Elder left to oversee the celebrations, and Duncan raised an eyebrow at his old friend's behaviour. "I must say, I've never known Valendrian to be this impatient."

"Me neither," Sagramor added. "He seems rather anxious to get this whole wedding done and over with." He paused for a moment, seeking for the right words. "Duncan, you said you knew my mother? How?"

"I met Adaia about twenty years ago, just before you were born. I had come to Denerim seeking recruits to join the Grey Wardens, and she happened to cross my path. Your mother was a fiery woman, bold and courageous. She would have made an excellent Warden."

"What happened?"

"I never made the offer," Duncan explained. "Valendrian convinced me it was better for her to remain here with her family. As there was no Blight, and thus no immediate need for recruits, I deferred to his wishes. But it seems she passed her training onto you, am I right?"

"Did the Elder tell you that?" Sagramor asked sharply.

"In part, just as I've learned of Adaia's death through many sources as well. You have my condolences for your loss. I know several years have passed since, but…"

"No, it's alright, Duncan, and thank you. It seems my mother led a richer life than I had ever thought." His mother, a potential recruit for the Wardens. He knew first-hand how good a swordswoman Adaia had been, but it was unexpected all the same. _Did she ever regret not joining the Order? Staying home and raising me?_ It was a sobering thought that he quickly shoved aside, for he knew he had a tendency to brood, a compulsion he strove to fight whenever possible.

"I know what you're thinking, and if I may be so bold, I don't think your mother regretted a single moment with you. She raised a child to be proud of."

"Boy, does that Elder Valendrian like to talk," Sagramor quipped, pleasantly surprised. Duncan was certainly more compassionate than most humans, even some of the other elves, but for all his polite words, Sagramor knew that the Grey Warden would be a terror to all his foes.

Duncan chuckled. "No, just my own insight." A flash of russet and cream coloured cloth caught his attention. "Ah, it looks like the priest is here. Please, attend your ceremonies. We will talk more later."

* * *

"I still can't believe your mother was nearly recruited into the Wardens," Soris exclaimed as the two rushed for the old wooden platform next to the _vhenadahl_ tree. "And this talk about a Blight? Do you think Duncan's right?"

"Well, if anyone would know the signs of a Blight, it would be the Grey Wardens," Sagramor stated. "Let's just hope they can keep it contained."

"Oh, no," Soris moaned.

"What?"

"I know that look."

"What look?"

"_That_ look!" Soris exclaimed, gesturing at the slightly wistful expression on Sagramor's face. "You're hoping he'll recruit you, aren't you? That if you join the Wardens, you won't have to get married!"

"Soris, that's not going to happen, alright?"

"But it is what you want, isn't it?"

"That's not-" Sagramor gave a long sigh, leaning back against the closest wall. "Listen, Soris, joining the Wardens would be interesting, but why in the name of the Maker would Duncan want me anyways? This is Denerim; between the city garrison, the various knights and lords who live here, and all the travellers coming from abroad, many of them capable of fighting, the Alienage is the last place he'd look to find a capable recruit. And even if he did want me as a Warden, the _hahren_ won't let him. Why do you think he's so insistent on pushing this wedding forward immediately?"

Soris paused at that. "You think he knew Duncan was coming?"

"Most likely. If Duncan's been in the city for a while, eventually the Elder would find out. This is my home, Soris. If I didn't leave with Pol when he ran away to find the Dalish, then why would I now?"

"Oh, the Dalish, I had completely forgotten about that option. Run away to live with elves who live free, why didn't I think of that?" he chuckled. "I'm sorry, cousin, I shouldn't have doubted you."

"And I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. Like it or not, I'm here to stay. After all, how could I leave my favourite cousin?"

"Thanks for making me feel special, Sagramor."

Sagramor gave a mocking snort. "Who said I was talking about you? I meant Shianni."

Laughing at the jest, the two elves finally made it to a large wooden stage assembled next to the _vhenadahl_, with the grand majority of the Alienage's population gathered around for the ceremony and feast. The bridal party was already present, Shianni amongst them, the worst of the stains having been removed her white bridesmaids dress. "Good, you're both here! That would have been quite a scandal if you two were late," she said, her voice cutting through the chatter of the audience, smiling brightly and seemingly none the worse for wear from her confrontation with Vaughn. "And here I was worried I wouldn't make it time. You have any idea how hard it is to clean out mead stains from white cloth?"

"I'm sure you found a way," Sagramor said, "you always do. Thanks again for being here."

"Hey, I couldn't exactly just stand back and let my cousin get married without being here to suitably embarrass him," she teased, giving him a gentle hug. "This is so exciting!"

"Soris!" Valora exclaimed joyfully. "There you are. I was afraid you'd run off."

"No, I'm here, with fellow groom in tow," Soris replied, blushing as the girl took his hand in her own. "Ready, cousin?"

"As much as I'll ever be. Good luck to you," said the dark-haired young elf, beaming alongside his own intended.

Silence fell as Elder Valendrian took to the stage. He had been the leader of their walled community since his thirties, a surrogate father, mayor and source of wisdom for so many people, so the Alienage folk took heed as he spoke. "Friends and family, today, we not only celebrate this joining, but also our bonds of kin and kind. We are a free people, but it was not always so. Andraste, our Maker's prophet, freed us from the bonds of slavery, gave us the chance of a life free from subjugation. As our community grows, remember that our strength lies in commitment to tradition and to each other. Now, I invite Mother Boann of the Chantry to invoke the Maker's blessings upon this wedding."

The priest of the Chantry stood forward next, a young human woman with reddish-brown hair and clad in the ceremonial robes of the faith, smiling with genuine benevolence. She was one of the few members of the Chantry who deigned to come to the Alienage on a regular basis, and while the majority of her fellows were content to chastise the community for their apparent sins, she had devoted her efforts to improving the literacy of the elves. Sagramor had learned his letters due in no small part to Boann's efforts, and he maintained a respectful silence as she spoke the words of union, his heart pounding with fear and exhilaration as Nesiara's hand met his. "In the name of the Maker, who brought us this world, and in who's name we sing the Chant of Light, I-"

"I'm sorry, Mother, but I have to interrupt for a moment," came the sneering, oily voice, and Sagramor felt his mouth go dry with fear. _Oh, Maker, not him again! Not now!_

Pushing and shoving his way through the crowd of watching elves was none other than Bann Vaughan, accompanied by the highborn sycophants who had accompanied him earlier…and a full score of grim-looking spearmen, the green-and-white crest of Denerim painted on their shields. Elves quickly scattered before the company, with those too slow to escape being knocked out of the way by the guards, all of them armoured in chainmail and leather and ready to unleash violence on the slightest provocation. "Milord, I- this is unexpected," Boann stammered. "Have you come to give your well-wishes to these unions? I am certain that the Maker would look favourably upon such an act."

Vaughan gave a cruel chuckle, stomping his way onto the stage. "Sorry to interrupt, Mother, but I've having a party, and we seem to be running dreadfully short of female guests. And since this wedding seems to be overflowing with them, I, as the heir to the arling, will assist this dump by relieving you of your surplus."

"Milord!" the priest cried in horror and indignation. "This is a wedding! A sacred affair-"

"If you want to dress up your pets and have tea parties, that's your business," Vaughan retorted, staring down the woman of the cloth. "But don't pretend that this is a real wedding. After all, only _people_ can get married, right?" He turned towards his fellows, a lecherous grin adorning his lips, and Sagramor's blood went cold. "Now, we're here for a good time, aren't we, boys?"

"Yeah, just a good time with the ladies, that's all!" Lord Braden crowed, grabbing one of the bridesmaids, a slender, pale girl named Nola. The crowd gasped in horror, but the presence of so many guards kept the elves at bay. "Bet this one could use a man in her life!"

Laughing, Vaughan cast his eyes over the bridal party the same way a butcher might examine different cuts of meat. "Let's take these two, the one in the tight dress…and where's the bitch who bottled me?"

"Here she is, Lord Vaughan!" said a weasel-faced noble by the name of Jonaley, as he seized Shianni. "You should have minded your own business, girl, now you're going to get it!"

"Let me go, you stuffed shirt son of a bitch!" the red-haired girl cried, struggling in vain as a pair of guardsmen dragged her away.

"Get your hands off her!" Sagramor roared, rushing forward. Vaughan had prepared his guards for trouble, however, and the young elf wheezed as a spear-butt struck him hard in the stomach. More proceeded to drag off the weeping, helpless women, while the increasingly-frantic crowd was held back by yet more guards. Reeling from the blow, Sagramor tried to rise, only to receive a swift kick in the ribs for his trouble. "Let them go, damn you," he coughed, dragging himself forward. _Shianni, Nesiara…I won't let them take you!_

Vaughan stepped on the young elf's outstretched hand, inciting a small cry of pain. "Ah yes, and here is the uppity runt who thinks he's worthy of speaking to me. Don't worry, I'll return whatever's left of them in time for the honeymoon."

"You're dead, Vaughan," the dark-haired elf snarled, propping himself up so his hate-filled eyes could meet the nobleman's. "You, your friends, your guards, you'll all die screaming for this! _Every last one of you!_"

"I live in fear," Vaughan sneered. "Back to the palace, boys. We'll send the women back intact," he stated, a lecherous grin spreading. "_Mostly._"

The pressure on his hand eased, and Sagramor went wild, throwing himself forward with utter abandon. The belt knife was torn from its scabbard, and he gave a howl of triumph as the blade slashed deeply into the side of Vaughan's face, screaming in rage. The crowd became a frenzied animal, elves pushing and shoving at the armoured soldiers in a desperate attempt to reach the captured women, the spear-butts and cudgels of the humans forcing them back, Valendrian and Boann desperately pleading with the soldiers to leave the women be. Sagramor lunged with the knife again, aiming for Vaughan's heart, but more guards came at him from all sides. A mailed fist slammed into the side of his head, and the guards fell upon him en-masse, striking with their spear-shafts and boots. "Leave him alive!" Vaughan barked, slapping aside Jonaley's hand as he tried to examine his wound. "Let him live with the knowledge that the Alienage is mine to do with as I please, his whores included!"

Sagramor opened his mouth to reply, but a solid kick to the forehead ended his defiance. As he slipped into tortured unconscious, he could clearly hear the screams of the women, echoing, fading, until everything was darkness…

* * *

A/N:

So here it is, the first chapter of my Dragon Age: Origins novelization. With this story, I'm trying to strike a balance between appealling to the hardcore fans like myself who are familiar with the franchise, and those newcomers who have no idea what Dragon Age is, and while I might not end up pleasing anybody, this balance is something I will try to work at throughout the rest of the story. As well, while the core of the narrative follows Origins pretty closely (you might have noticed some in-game dialogue being used here), expect to see some additional goodness from stuff that was glossed over by the game. For example, I'll be following the Bannorn's rebellion against Loghain in more detail, as well as bringing the Avvar into the fray, along with some cameos and guest appearances from various DA2 characters and companions.

As always, any and all comments, suggestions and constructive criticism are much appreciated. Hope you enjoy!


	2. Elves at the Mercy of Men

A/N: _Just to give you all fair warning, this chapter does deal with sexual assault, and while it's not shown, the suggestion of it is definitely overt. Trigger warnings are in effect, and your discretion in this chapter is advised. The M rating is well deserved here, and it's one of the darker installments I've ever written, so please, if you feel uncomfortable reading such things, then read no further! Otherwise, enjoy._

* * *

**The Grey Path Chapter 2 – Elves at the Mercy of Men**

"Can you hear me, cousin? Are you alright?"

Sagramor groaned in pain as he came awake, the monstrous pounding of his skull and the rough wood of the stage scraping his elbows evidence enough of his continued survival. Taking Soris' hand, he hoisted himself up, breathing deeply to quell his growing panic. "Never mind me, what happened to Shianni and the other women?"

"Gone. Vaughan took them all, cousin; Shianni, Nesiara, Valora, Nola, the entire bridal party! The Elder tried to stop them, but there was nothing anyone could do."

"Damnation!" Sagramor roared, stumbling forward off the stage. The pounding only increased, his vision swam for an instant, and the young elf gave a small moan of pain, cursing his battered state. "We need to go after them."

"Maybe you should rest, cousin, those guards roughed you up pretty hard," Soris urged gently. "At least get the Elder to examine your wounds before you go storming off."

Sagramor opened his mouth to retort, but fell silently as a trickle of blood slithered down his face. "Suppose it wouldn't hurt. Where's the Elder now?"

"Over by the tree with that Grey Warden, Duncan. For the most part, I think he's just trying to calm things down; everybody's getting upset!"

"How upset?"

"Some are calling for blood," Soris explained as the two young men made their way over. "Others say that any action will just make it worse for the rest of us. It's getting ugly, fast."

"And you?" the dark-haired elf inquired.

Soris sighed in resignation. "I think both sides are right. The smart thing to do would be to keep our heads down, but I'm not willing to do that while Valora's in danger. If there's anything we can do to help, I say we do it."

"Agreed," Sagramor replied, privately impressed with his cousin's nerve. Adaia had trained her son in combat, but her nieces and nephews remained untutored at the request of their parents, so to see Soris willing to risk his life for a woman he just met despite this handicap was inspiring. For his part, Sagramor tried to remain calm, but the thought of the women suffering at Vaughan's hands stoked his anger once more. _Especially Shianni…_ "Let's see what we can add to the discussion."

Picking up their feet, the two young elves headed towards the growing crowd, threading their way through until they were next to Valendrian himself. The Elder raised his hands in a placating gesture as he tried to settle things down. "Please, all of you, listen! I know you are upset, and with good reason, but there is nothing we can do right now!"

"He's right," chimed in Elva, the usually bitter elf very matter-of-fact about the subject, her worn face betraying no sympathies for the abducted women. "Running after them will only make things worse."

"So we do nothing?" another elf retorted, face turning red as his hair. "They took my sister!"

"Let's pay the humans back!" demanded a third. "Take their women in exchange for our own!"

"Shianni shouldn't have hit the Bann like that. She always was a troublemaker; now look where it's gotten her!"

"We should rise up! The humans have gone too far, we should pay them back in blood!"

A cacophony of voices added to the din, as every elf present shouted their suggestions and demands. Proposals and counter-proposals echoed back and forth, and the Elder's pleas went unheard as the discussion became more heated and divisive. Throughout it all, Duncan remained by his old friend's side, brows furrowed in thought, his quiet contemplation a sober counterpoint to the growing hysteria.

"Elder Valendrian!" Sagramor boomed, cutting through the din. "Do we have any idea where the women are right now?"

"They were taken to the Arl's palace, I suspect," Valendrian answered. "Normally, I'd consul patience. However, stories of the Arl's son and his…appetites are most disturbing, and I cannot help but feel that every moment Shianni and the others are held prisoner, their peril increases."

"All the more reason to move quickly then," stated Sagramor, the beginnings of a plan forming.

"But what can we do?" one of the crowd stated. "It's the Arl's palace; even with the Arl and his knights gone, it will be guarded. And that doesn't even count the rest of the city guard, or the garrison at Fort Drakon. We'd all be massacred before we could try anything!"

"Elder, if I may make a suggestion?" spoke another elf, a slender young man whose dark skin suggested a more northerly heritage.

"Of course, Galen, all are welcome to speak."

"I work inside the palace," Galen explained, "I could sneak in one, perhaps two others in through the servant's entrance. Nobody will notice a few more elves looking around."

"Excellent idea," Sagramor added, seizing onto this thread of hope. "En masse, we'd never free Shianni and the others, the guards would just close the gates and cut us to pieces. But a few of us sneaking in, we could be in and out with the women in tow before anyone notices the difference."

"I'm with you, of course, cousin," Soris declared, trying not to appear nervous, "but if we're caught, we won't be able to talk our way out of it."

For the first time since the abduction occurred, Duncan spoke. "For that, you will need weapons," he said, removing a few from his keeping. "Allow me to offer you my own longsword and bow. A man should be able to defend his loved ones properly."

Soris took the proffered weapons in trembling hands, though Sagramor declined their use. "I have my mother's greatsword, Duncan, it's a weapon I'm more familiar with and I think I'll work better with it. While your assistance is appreciated, I think we could use an experienced fighter like you with us more. Why don't you come with us?"

Duncan sighed regretfully. "I am afraid I cannot. Believe me when I say that my intervention would do more harm than good, both for the Alienage and all of Ferelden. If this is to be done, it must be done by you."

"Then your path is set," Valendrian stated solemnly. "I pray that the Maker looks on it with favour, and brings you all home safe."

"You're all insane!" Elva declared. "The guards will burn our homes down around us! You're risking all our lives for the sake of a bunch of foolish tramps!"

"Enough, Elva! You've had your say," retorted the Elder, his firm tone silencing her. "They _shall_ try, for their own honour and the honour of the women. We must trust in the Maker that He will see justice done."

"He will if I have anything to say about it, Elder," said the dark-haired elf, turning towards his compatriots. "Galen, I need you to send word ahead to the palace. Make sure that the servants' entrance is unlocked and the way cleared. Once we reach the palace grounds, we'll need to be quick."

"Of course."

"Soris," Sagramor added, "I need you to collect some spare clothing and tear them into strips. We'll use them as bandages in case any of us gets injured, the women included. We'll meet back here in a few minutes. As for me," he said, striding determinedly towards home, "I'm going to get my sword."

* * *

As Sagramor headed for home, he noticed a stillness in the air, a tension in the Alienage, as if the entire community was holding its breath and waiting for the plunge. Housewives called for their children, scooping them up in their arms to shield them as he passed, while some of the older folk spat at their feet as he approached, seething with fear and resentment. Others still avoided making eye contact, or skipped over to the other side of the path, as if his mere presence was an omen of ill luck for any he encountered. They understood his purpose, they bemoaned the potential consequences, and they feared what he was capable of.

_Let them._

As right now, Sagramor Tabris felt like the most dangerous son-of-a-bitch in all of Ferelden.

And Bann Vaughan Kendells, heir to the arling of Denerim, had made himself an enemy.

* * *

Upon reaching his home, Sagramor moved with even greater haste, using his knife to pry free some loose floorboards under the bunk bed he and Soris shared, and removing the prize within. It was his mother's greatsword, sheathed in a worn leather scabbard and covered with an old oilcloth to keep off the worst of the dust. Drawing the old blade, Sagramor tested the edge, smiling in relief at the keenness of the four foot long steel. The sword was heavy, tough and vicious, and few in the Alienage were strong enough to wield it for any considerable length of time. It had been Grandfather Rafen's first, a trophy of the Rebellion, and the emblem of Orlais stamped into the pommel had been left worn and smoothed down by the passage of time and use. Sheathing the blade and gathering a sword-belt and some battered leather bracers, Sagramor turned to see his father. "Are you certain about this, son?"

"I am," Sagramor replied firmly, tightening a bracer over his right forearm. "Those girls deserve better than this, and I'm not going to leave them to rot in Vaughan's clutches."

"You wouldn't be my son if you did," Cyrion said. He had always been a peaceful soul, built to endure the trials faced by the alienage folk, but it appeared that even his quiet nature had its limits. "It's just-"

"Don't, Father, please. There's nothing to worry about. I'll be back before you know it."

Cyrion gave a mournful sigh. "I pray to the Maker that you're right."

The door shut with a clatter, and Duncan entered, a piece of worn parchment in his right hand. "Are you prepared?"

"Almost. Sure I can't convince you to come with us?"

"Regrettably not, but I can offer you one last weapon. Here," the Warden said, passing the parchment in Sagramor's waiting hand. "It is from memory and only covers the main floor, but it should help you to avoid becoming lost."

"A layout of the palace," said Sagramor, giving it a quick glance. He had never been inside before, having found work elsewhere, so this would doubtless prove valuable. "I appreciate it."

"Grey Warden, I must ask-"

"Why I will not join your son in this endeavour, Master Cyrion?" Duncan gave a weary sigh. "My Order to committed to a position of political neutrality to help us fight the darkspawn. The battles of kings and men are not our concern, so long as they do not interfere with our primary mission. Moreover, the Order is weak in Ferelden. It was only twenty years ago that King Maric permitted the Grey Wardens to return to this country, and we rely upon the good graces of the nobility far more than we would like. With a Blight on Ferelden's doorstep…"

"You can't go around picking fights with the people letting you remain," Sagramor finished. As much as he didn't like it, he had to admit that Duncan had a point. The darkspawn were the enemies of all life, all peoples, and the young elf got the impression that Duncan was sticking his neck out enough as it was. They would make do, and succeed despite his absence. "What can you tell me about Vaughan? Has he fought in battle before?"

"No, merely a few tournaments. He does possess some skill with a blade, but he is no soldier. His father is a decent man and a warrior of some renown, but his son lacks these virtues, and the garrison may suffer for it."

"How so?" asked Sagramor.

"The Arl is a strict disciplinarian, both respected and feared by his troops. Vaughan is neither, and with the majority of the city's troops having followed their lord south, those left behind may have allowed themselves to grow idle and unprepared."

"Numbers?"

"I would estimate at least twenty men, no more than thirty."

"Thirty men…" Cyrion breathed, horrified. "Son, how can you possibly stand against so many?"

"One at a time if possible. All at once if necessary."

"You'll forgive me if I don't find that comforting."

"We're all here, cousin," said Soris, walking in with Galen, the pair hefting large cloth rucksacks over their shoulders.

"Got those bandages?"

"Yeah, and even better. Look," Soris said, loosening the drawstrings of one bag. The red-haired elf had cleverly filled the sacks with as much spare clothing as he could find before placing his borrowed blades inside, concealing them beneath the garments. Indeed, had Soris not chosen to show him, Sagramor doubted he ever would have seen the weapons. "Have one for you as well. Hope your greatsword will fit."

"It will," replied Sagramor, placing the blade in the bag before arranging the clothing to mask it. "Galen, I assume that you've sent that runner?"

"Yes," Galen answered. "There should be a guard on duty right inside, but he's usually drunk or asleep."

"So much the better for us. By any chance, do you know how to use a blade?"

Galen uttered a regretful sigh. "No, I've never even held one, at least not one meant for battle."

"Very well then," Sagramor said, fixing the others with a hard stare. "Then here's the plan. When we get to the palace, we'll get as close to Vaughan's chambers as possible before we make our move. I will take the lead; I have the most skill and experience with a weapon, and can best defend myself against any guards we meet. Soris, I want you to stay behind me and attack only when you see an opening. I don't doubt your courage or commitment, but the garrison are trained soldiers. Valora deserves a living husband, not a dead hero, so just stay back and if you get the chance, stick 'em with the pointy end."

"Alright, if you say so," Soris replied, swallowing nervously.

"Galen," the dark-haired elf addressed the third member of their little team, "You have the most dangerous and vital task of all: seeing the women to safety. Whatever happens, when the fighting starts, you're to stay out of sight and avoid attracting the attention of the guards. Once we have freed the women, you're to stay with them and escort them home. They may be injured, they may be in shock, but you must bring them back to the Alienage in one piece. If necessary, Soris and I will hold the line long enough for you to escape." Sagramor paused, allowing the impact of his words to sink in. "If you want to back out now, then no one will think less of you for it. But we bring the women home, or we don't come home at all. Understood?"

"I'm with you, cousin," Soris affirmed.

"As am I," Galen said.

"Then let's go."

_Hold on, Shianni. We're coming._

* * *

Denerim was not a place of beautiful architecture or of refined knowledge. The Prophetess Andraste had been born there over a thousand years earlier, but even its nature as a place of pilgrimage for the faithful was secondary. It was a much a brute citadel as it was a place of habitation, Fereldan to the core, the many homes and warehouses all surrounded by a series of massive stone walls and towers, both surrounding the city proper and dividing its various districts. Any foe attacking either by land or sea would face some of the most considerable defenses in Thedas, most notably the massive Tevinter-constructed citadel of Fort Drakon that dominated the southwestern corner of the city. Even if these outer ramparts were breached, their ordeal would have only just begun, for dotted throughout the city lay the estates of Ferelden's nobility, each one a fortress in their own right.

The palace of the Arl of Denerim was one of the largest and best-maintained of these, befitting the home of the city's rulers. A deep moat had been sunk around the high walls of the compound, connected to the series of canals and tributaries that ran through the city and spanned only by a short stone bridge that led to the outer gatehouse. A besieging foe would either have to funnel his forces across that bridge and be torn to pieces by archers posted in the numerous towers, or attempt to fill the moat and then scale the walls, a hazardous prospect. Of course, even if an enemy were clever or dedicated enough to take the outer walls, they would then face the palace itself, a squat keep with more towers, more guards and more blood for any invader foolish enough to attack it openly.

Which is why Sagramor and company walked openly through the open gatehouse, slumped under the weight of their counterfeit laundry and acting like they had every right to be there. Denerim was full of elves, and their labour kept so much of the city running, though the humans would never admit it. They were servants and street sweepers, potboys and washerfolk, dockhands and dogsbodies and dung farmers, and Fereldan society could hardly function without them. As such, the few guards watching the gate noticed nothing amiss, and were more concerned with getting their midday meal and ale ration than a trio of stinking knife-ears. "How many guards do you see?" Soris asked.

"Just two at the gatehouse and it doesn't look like there are many on the outer wall," Sagramor replied, busily scanning for any indication of resistance. "I think Duncan was right. Most of the soldiers have gone south, and the rest are relying on the defenses to protect them." _If they are aware of danger at all._ After all, who would be stupid enough to attack the Arl's palace?

"Here we are," Galen said, leading them through the palace garden and the servant's entrance.

Stepping into the antechamber, Sagramor gasped at the warmth radiating from the kitchen fires in the next chamber. The guard on duty was slumbering, an empty jar of ale on the table beside him, and only awoke when the belt knife scraped the stubble at his throat. "Where's Vaughan?" came Sagramor's growled inquiry.

"He should be in his chambers," babbled the human, realizing he was in no position to resist. "Please, I had nothing to do with Vaughan taking your women, please, have mercy!" The elf's hard stare bore into him, and his words quickly devolved into pitiful pleas for forgiveness, hoping against hope that the foe would spare him.

Studying the guard's face intently, Sagramor made his decision. A rapid left hook knocked him off his stool and onto the stone floor. Covering the guard's mouth with his hand to stifle any cry, the elf drove his fist into the man's gut three times, the pain sufficient to render him unconscious. "Soris, you have those bandages I asked for?"

"Plenty. Why?"

"Pass a few here," Sagramor replied. With the aid of the others, the guard was quickly bound and gagged, before being shoved in the corner and concealed with some nearby sacking. "With luck, that'll keep him until we can escape with Shianni and the others."

"Um, cousin, not to sound too bloodthirsty or anything, but if he breaks out…"

"I know," Sagramor replied. The smart thing to do would be to put a knife through his ribs now and save a potential problem later. But the guard had been telling the truth. Of all the faces that had stared out at the elves from behind their half-helms as they took the women away, his was not one of them. Moreover, the thought of slaying a helpless prisoner made his stomach turn. He felt he wouldn't have any difficulty in killing an armed man, prepared and fighting back, especially in the vengeful mood he was in, but to slay a man outside of battle was wrong. _Let's hope it doesn't cost us…_

Hoisting their laundry sacks once more, the trio cut through the kitchens and passed through the dining hall, keeping their heads respectfully low to avoid the attention of the half-dozen or so off-duty and increasingly drunk guards. As their grumbling voices receded, Sagramor gave the map a quick check. _Okay then, head straight down this corridor to the entrance hall, then through the corridor on the right, and to the last door on the left…_

"Hide it!" Soris hissed, the clank of mailed boots drawing their attention.

"What are you lot doing 'ere?" said the guard, clad in a functional suit of chainmail, gauntlets figuring the longsword that hung from his belt. "Speak quickly, you knife-eared little shits, or I'll have Cook throw you into tonight's stew."

"Laundry delivery for the castle, ser," said Sagramor, assuming an appropriately slavish tone.

"But we'll already had a delivery today," the guard muttered in confusion, pointing at the cousins in anger. "And I don't recognize the pair of you from the staff…"

As understanding dawned in the guard's mind, Sagramor swung his laundry sack with all the strength he could muster. Soris had stuffed the bags with every spare scrap of clothing he could find, and the guard stumbled, left off-balance. Sagramor saw his opening and lunged with the belt knife, a quick thrust into the neck. Red warmth flooded over his hands, staining the bright wedding tunic, and the guard fell.

More armour clanked; a second guard, crossbow loaded and leveled. A quick flick of Sagramor's wrist, and the knife embedded itself in the meat of his shoulder. The human gave a shrill scream, but the elf was already upon him, repeatedly slamming the soldier's head into the wall until he stopped moving.

But the damage had been done. A babble of shocked voices raised the hue and cry, footsteps pounding on the stone and heading for them fast. "What do we do now, cousin?" asked Soris.

The rational part of Sagramor's mind knew the answer, and dreaded it, but the darker aspects of his psyche revelled in it. "Galen, stay out of danger, and be ready to follow us once the way is clear. Soris, draw steel and kill them all."

Swords scraped free from their scabbards, the outraged voices of the humans rose to a fever pitch, and Sagramor and Soris met the rush.

* * *

The state of the Alienage had become even more tempestuous and panicked since the rescue party left, but while Valendrian and Duncan did their best to settle things down, Cyrion Tabris remained alone within his humble home. He tried losing himself within the banalities of everyday routine, taking care of some day-to-day chores, but his father's heart would not be stilled. He knew that there was nothing he could do, that his son possessed the skill and courage to see succeed in this rescue, and it gave him no comfort. Shianni and Soris, he had taken care of them ever since their own parents died, and considered them to be more like his own children than those of his siblings. And Sagramor, who tried so hard to be a good man, who strove every day to emulate his mother, who was the best son a father could ask for…

A wooden plate tumbled out of his hands, and Cyrion crumpled, allowing himself to weep. He felt so terribly old and fragile and weak, unable to shield his own son from danger, to protect those he had always sworn to. _Oh, Adaia, my love, I wish you were here, now more than ever. You would know what to do. You always did._

Kneeling, Cyrion pleaded under his breath, "Maker, I have not asked much from you, and you have rarely listened, but please listen to an old man now. Save my son. Give him the strength needed to save the women, and bring them all back home safely."

Cupping his head in his hands, Cyrion wept freely. For in his heart, he understood that there would be no happy ending to this, no return to normality.

The humans had taken his wife from him. Now, one way or another, they would take his son.

* * *

Within the wall of the palace, a storm broke.

Roaring his defiance, Sagramor carved through the garrison, his greatsword sweeping forward in bright, lethal arcs. Behind him, Soris fought grimly on, less skilled but no less committed to see justice done. Parrying the thrust of a shortsword, Sagramor struck down its wielder with a swift thrust, kicking the corpse into the press of humans to buy himself some breathing room. "Come on, you scum! I want you!"

The guards advanced, charging the intruders with the arrogance of those who did not believe they could be beaten, particularly by a pair of ragged elves. But Duncan had been right; the garrison was unprepared. Many had been roused from their quarters by the alarm and so went unarmoured, while others still were slowed by drink, their senses fuddled. One of the humans collapsed, skull split open. Another gave a professional lunge; Sagramor sidestepped and took off the foe's sword-hand before running him through. "What's the matter? Afraid of a little knife-ear? Come for me!"

More humans charged, and Sagramor met them in a vengeful rush, sword slaked with blood, cutting through chainmail and spearshafts and flesh alike. There was a joy in this, a terrible, insane joy that came from facing such odds, and Sagramor laughed, battle-drunk. Two men against so many! It was the stuff of legends, the meat and bread of so many tales, and even if they were to fall, the humans would tremble with the knowledge that they were not immune from consequence, that the spirit and strength of the alienages would never truly be crushed. "For Shianni and the Alienage!" he howled, teeth bared in a lupine snarl. "Come on and die, you bastards!"

For the young elf, everything had become perfectly clear, his senses operating at a level he never dreamed possible. A mail-clad soldier raised his sword to strike, but Sagramor ignored his threat to deal with another guard in a rough wool tunic driving a spear towards his belly. Sagramor released his blade, seizing the spearshaft just below the razor-sharp head, and tugged. The unarmoured guard screamed in agony as his comrade's sword cleaved into his back, and Sagramor let the dying man fall, retrieving the greatsword and bringing it up in a massive sweeping blow that tore through the other. He was an angel of death, striding through the halls of the palace and bringing ruination to all who opposed him, leaving the dead scattered behind him like autumn leaves.

Then a woman's scream cut through the madness, and the elves rushed into a nearby longue to witness the freshest of the day's horrors.

Somehow, by some combination of luck and guile, one of the bridesmaids had managed to slip free from her captors. It was Nola, her pale face streaked with sweat and tears, one hand holding up her ripped bodice. She saw the two men and ran towards them, a relieved smile gracing her fearful expression, and for one glorious moment, Sagramor felt that everything would be fine.

Then Nola gave a tiny grunt, propelled forward into Sagramor's arms, the crossbow bolt jutting out of her back. "No!" the elf roared, ducking as a second bolt flew past his head.

Three soldiers stormed into the room, the heavy ash crossbows in their hands evidence of their guilt. Their leader, the insignia of a captain present on his tabard, fired, forcing Sagramor behind a table for cover. "Looks like we got ourselves some troublemaking knife-ears, boys!" he drawled, pulling a fresh bolt from his quiver. "Shame about the whore, but there are plenty more back in Vaughan's room! Finish this scum quick so we can have a taste!"

Something broke inside Sagramor, a rush of sudden fury that overwhelmed all sense of caution or reason. He had not been particularly close to Nola; the girl had been very shy and didn't socialize much with the rest of the community, but she had been a kind, gentle person and deserved a far better fate than this. It was just one more injustice out of so many, one more frustration in a life full of them; of working hard at the toughest jobs for next to nothing only to be labelled lazy and ungrateful, of facing endless suspicion and bigotry, of watching family and community perish from hunger or disease or accidents or the blades of the guards, of slaving and saving and bowing and scrimping and getting by on nothing and building a life only to have some spoiled nobles destroy it all in the space of a few minutes, and the anger burst from him in a frenzy.

His mother had always warned against acting on such impulses. "Anger is a carthorse!" she admonished him once after a particularly difficult sparring session. "Harness it, whip it, make it work but don't ever ask where it wants to go. A clear head in battle is often more important than a strong sword-arm."

It had been good advice, but Sagramor was past remembering it. For in his fury, he thought of nothing by tearing through all opponents, storming into Vaughan's chambers and driving his greatsword so deep into his twisted heart they'd have to bury him with it.

Without thinking, Sagramor charged right at the crossbowmen, their eyes going wide with fear, hands slipping, fumbling with their weapons. The first brought the wooden stock up to his shoulder, lining up the shot, but the elf's greatsword batted it aside. The second fired in haste, tearing off a few strands of black hair, even as the Captain discarded the unloaded crossbow in favour of his longsword. Finishing off his current victim, Sagramor crossed blades with the Captain, the heavy sword forcing him back.

Somewhere in the previous madness, Soris had obtained one of the guards' shields to use alongside the sword borrowed from Duncan. It was a heavy, clumsy and far more of a strain that he would have liked, but he put those attributes to good use, slamming the iron-bound oak into the other guard. The man stumbled, but parried Soris' subsequent thrust all the same, putting the elf on the defensive.

"Maker curse you!" screamed the Captain, aware that he was running out of room to retreat. Feinting left, he struck high, going for Sagramor's eyes, but the elf ducked, striking at his midsection. The guard's blade struck only air, but from the agonized screams that tore from his throat, Sagramor's blade didn't.

"Enjoy your taste?" the elf growled, eyes full of tears, kicking the foe away as he bled out. With one smooth motion, he turned and stabbed the final guard in the back, Soris gasping in shock as the threat fell.

And then there was silence, stark and terrible, broken only the sobbing gasps of dying men. "Maker, cousin, they killed her!" Soris said, staring at Nola's body with undisguised horror. "The others-"

"That's not going to happen to them, I won't let it!" Sagramor barked, his gaunt face wound tight. _Oh, Nola, I am so, so sorry. I should have gotten here faster, fought harder…_

"Sagramor, we can't take her with us," intoned Soris' grief-laced voice.

"I know, cousin. Maker forgive me, I know." There was simply no time to bring her body with them, nor could they fight effectively with such a burden. Nola would never be returned to her parents, never given the burial she deserved, not even at the pauper's graves used by most of the alienage folk. Cuffing tears, Sagramor took a moment to cover her body with the guard's cloaks, a futile gesture of respect, all he could do with time against them.

"Cousin…"

"We kill them all, Soris. If they stand in our way, then they die."

* * *

Further along the corridor, the palace garrison had finally managed to assemble themselves into a halfway-decent defense. There were only six men, but they were all armed and armoured, their shields overlapping and their formation tight. Beyond them lay Vaughan's chambers.

They stood in their way, so they would die.

At Sagramor's suggestion, Soris had brought the three crossbows used by the previous group of soldiers; all of them strung and ready to be fired, one after the other. The first bolt went wide, hitting the stonework above the guards' heads, but the second flew true, strike a soldier in the face and casting him down. Instantly, Sagramor was in the gap, hacking into the humans and tearing apart their formation from the inside-out. Having lost so many comrades already, they quickly began to crumble; abandoning the fight, but Sagramor was relentless, cutting them down where they stood. One or two remained, fighting on in desperation, aghast at the possibility of being defeated by an elf. Sagramor winced in pain as a blade slashed his right shoulder, and he retaliated by cleaving off the offender's head.

Soris' voice rose in warning, and Sagramor turned, barely parrying a savage strike from yet another enemy. It was one of the Arl's knights, a giant garbed in heavy silverite plate, face hidden behind his full helm. In his right hand, a heavy mace battered away the elf's greatsword, tearing it from his grip. In his left, a metal shield bashed his opponent to the floor. Sagramor tried to get back to his feet, only to be kicked in the ribs for his troubles.

Emboldened, the two remaining guards focused their attacks on Soris. Frantically, the elf parried and deflected what he could, each ounce of strength and skill going to just staying alive, let alone fighting back. Seeing his cousin's plight, Sagramor rose until another kick sending him to the ground.

The knight seized Sagramor by the throat, lifting him up off the ground and slamming him into the wall. He had no idea how these elves expected to get away with trying to murder the Arl's son, but ultimately, it didn't matter. The Arl had assigned him to watch over his heir while he and the rest of his knights fought in the south, and if he was to be denied the glory of facing the darkspawn, then the knight could at least take comfort in doing his duty as best he could. His lordship could be made aware of the threat once it had been dealt with; his pleasures were to remain uninterrupted. Striking the elf in the face with the hilt of his mace, the human drew back for the final blow.

In that instant, Sagramor launched his final gambit. The knight's armour was well-made and would be difficult for him to breach, even if he managed to retrieve his fallen greatsword. But like any suit of plate, there were vulnerabilities; the gaps where the various pieces met, the narrow opening at the neck between the helm and the breastplate, the dark slits in the helm for him to see…

The knight howled, reeling in agony, Sagramor's belt knife driven right into the left eye-slit. The foe staggered away, giving the elf an opportunity to grab his sword and bring the steel blade down on his neck. Once, twice, thrice with all his strength, and the plate crumpled, oozing dark blood. The remaining guards turned, stunned by the change in fortunes, allowing Soris to strike one down, longsword slick with gore. Seeing his fellows all butchered around him, the last man tried to run, but Sagramor was there, casting him to the floor and kicking his skull over and over again. "We finish this," he intoned darkly, taking his sword to the door of Vaughan's chambers. Wood splintered under the repeated impacts, and with a final kick, the elves burst in.

Every head in the room turned to face the battered and bloodied intruders; Vaughan, Braden and Jonaley all in various states of undress. On the bed, Shianni gave a short scream and bolted away, drawing her tattered and ruined skirts around her in the hopes of hiding her debasement. Cursing, Vaughan buckled his pants, grabbing a shortsword from Braden before he addressed Sagramor, voice thick with condescension. "My, my, what have we here?"

"Don't worry, we'll make short work of these two," Jonaley crowed.

"Quiet, you idiot! They're covered with enough blood to fill a tub! Now what you think that means?"

"It means that your father's going to need to recruit some more soldiers," Sagramor growled, levelling his weapon at Vaughan, "and get himself another heir!"

"Now, now, let's not be hasty," Vaughan said, suddenly conciliatory. "I think we both know that killing me would be a very bad mistake on your part. Strike me down, and by dawn tomorrow, the city will run red with elven blood. After all, it has been some years since the Alienage was last purged. Perhaps it's overdue."

_A purge._ Sagramor felt the cold hands of terror grip him. Of all the tools of oppression the humans had at their disposal, to purge an alienage was the most dreadful and vicious of them all. It was a means of subjugation, in which the city's combined soldiery were sent it to massacre any elves they encountered, with no atrocity considered unacceptable as a punitive measure. It could take years for an alienage to recover from the resulting slaughter, and Vaughan knew it. "This is no idle threat. My father would not take my death lightly, and neither you nor your families would live long to regret it."

"If you're going to say something, Vaughan, say it," came Sagramor's response, Shianni's pitiful sobs like a knife in the heart. _Don't worry, Shianni, I'm getting you out of here!_

"Here's what I propose," Vaughan said, smirking once more. "Turn and walk away. Leave Denerim tonight, and you will not be harmed or hunted. As a gesture of good faith, I'll even add forty gold sovereigns to your purses. How does that sound?"

Soris gasped in shock, and Sagramor couldn't truly blame him. Forty sovereigns was a fortune, and he knew that even many wealthy humans or dwarves wouldn't sneeze at such a sum. They could live to a ripe old age in decent comfort on that kind of money, and more important, they might avoid any blowback harming the alienage. But the thought of cutting a deal with this monster repulsed him on every level, and he couldn't shake the feeling that to do so would be a mistake.

And then Shianni gave a choked sob, and the forty sovereigns vanished like dust in a gale with her plea. "Please get me out of here. I want to go home!" Her face, usually so lively and good-natured, had been left bloodied by Vaughan's cruel ministrations, and Sagramor could see the horror of what she had gone through reflected in the extensive bruising along her neck. "Please, cousin…"

"What about the women? Are they free to go as well?" Sagramor asked, hard grey eyes never leaving the Bann.

"Oh, they'll stay until the morning," was Vaughan's reply. "They'll be returned safely once we're done with them, but if I'm playing you forty sovereigns to leave, then I expect to get my money's worth. The redhead has been quite delicious thus far, and it would be a shame not to sample the others. That's the deal. Take it or leave it."

"Here's a counteroffer," Sagramor snarled, advancing. "You and your cronies die screaming, I free the women and take the coin of your stinking corpse. How does _that_ sound?"

"Bah! I always regret talking to knife-ears! Now I'll just gut your ignorant carcasses instead!" Vaughan screamed, lunging for Sagramor. The elf deflected, trying to bring the superior reach and power of his weapon against the nobleman's swift blade. Vaughan was no mean swordsman, and constantly jabbed towards his opponent's wounded right shoulder, hoping to exacerbate the wound. But Sagramor remained focused, even as Soris fought off Braden and Jonaley behind him, putting every bit of his will into bringing his enemy down once and for all.

"What have you bastards done with Valora?" Soris shouted, letting his shield absorb the impact of Jonaley's sword. Braden tried striking at the elf's side, but a clumsy slash that tore at his upper arm forced him to reconsider. Jonaley raised the sword above his head for a killing stroke, but Soris remembered his cousin's advice, and stuck him in the belly with the pointy end. The noble's eyes widened in horror, and he coughed blood all over some white silk sheets as he fell.

Vaughan's eyes flickered to the side, distracted by the death of his comrade. Sagramor seized the initiative, drawing his head back and breaking the nobleman's nose with a vicious head-butt. A powerful kick followed, and he toppled backwards, knocking a delicate crystal goblet onto the floor. The greatsword flickered, sending his blade skittering away. "Mercy, ser!" the noble pleaded, looking around for anything that might be used as a weapon. "Perhaps I was being too hasty. How about a hundred sovereigns? Will that satisfy you?"

Grim-faced, silent and utterly without pity, Sagramor walked towards Vaughan, letting the greatsword drag on the floor, the metal scraping on the hard stone with a terrifying screech. "And you can take the women as well! The redhead too, I was just about done with her. Bring them all back to the alienage, just leave me alive."

Sagramor maintained his silence. "I have allies, elf, powerful ones!" Vaughan boomed enthusiastically, as if he was sharing some great secret. "We're going to remake Ferelden, and you, you could be a part of it! You want to make a better life for your people, then spare me, and you could join us!"

That horrid scraping continued, the sound of an executioner's blade, and Vaughan lost all composure. "Damn you, I am the heir to the arling of Denerim. Every life and soul in this city is mine to do with as I please, and I command you to speak, you fucking knife-ear! What will it take to satisfy you? _Say something!_"

"Your life," Sagramor whispered, raising the greatsword, and with all the hate and fury he could muster, bringing it down through the heart of Vaughan Kendells.

The nobleman choked on the blood that filled his mouth and throat, dying words fading on his lips. "And just so you know, you piece of shit, her name is _Shianni!_" the elf bellowed, twisting the blade and wrenching it free so that blood poured from the dying man. "And you will never hurt my family ever again." Spitting on his fallen enemy, Sagramor allowed the rage to bleed from him, panting with exhaustion.

"Cousin!" Soris screamed, and Sagramor turned, just in time to avoid Braden's sword from stabbing him in the back of the head. Soris attempted to intervene, but the noble riposted, and the elf staggered back, bearing a deep cut on his sword-arm.

But in his desire to defend himself against the intruders, Lord Braden fought about the third elf in the room. Like a mad wolf, Shianni was behind him, plunging Vaughan's shortsword into his neck. Down went Braden, life leaking from the wound. Down went Shianni, screaming her vengeance at the last of those who had abused and defiled her. Down went the sword, plunging into his overweight body again and again and again and over and over and over until her entire existence was a haze of red and the gore drenched her white gown and the blade kept stabbing him and stabbing and stabbing and then Sagramor was pulling her off his corpse and holding her close and whispering soothing words and trying to make everything right, just like he always did. "It's over, Shianni, he's dead."

"Oh, Maker," Shianni bawled in stunned disbelief, eyes fixed on the blood that had drenched her arms and upper body. "I killed him. I killed a noble, and they're going to arrest me, and I'm going to hang-"

"No, no, Shianni, that's not going to happen, okay? He was killed by the intruders who broke in here, you did nothing wrong. They killed Vaughan and the others, okay?"

"B-but the blood!"

"There is blood everywhere," Sagramor told her firmly. "The castle is full of it. The intruders did a lot of damage when they attacked, and they killed many men. _Everyone_ is covered in blood."

"Yes, you're right," she mumbled, still lost in shock. She looked at the two men for the first time, as if just realizing that they were present. "I want to go home. I need to get out of here, please."

"We will, Shianni, we will. Now, where are the others?"

"In the back chamber. I think Vaughan was saving them for later."

"Soris, go see to them. Soris!" Sagramor shouted, rousing the other elf from his stunned reverie. "Go check and make sure the others are okay."

"Yeah, sure, sure," Soris stuttered, returning the borrowed longsword into its scabbard. "Just tell me we did the right thing here, cousin."

"We did," Sagramor declared with an absolute certainty. Vaughan had been right on some level; there would be repercussions, both for the rescuing elves and the Alienage as a whole, but the deaths of the garrison alone would have been enough to incur a punishment. Indeed, if the humans wanted to brutalize the elves, they didn't need an excuse; they routinely went out and did it without cause regardless. Vaughan had no interest in keeping his word, and the women deserved a better fate than to be abandoned and made his unwilling playthings. He would regret a great deal about this day, but risking his life to save the women? Never. But what had he meant about 'allies'? On the surface, he might have just been talking about his other noble friends, but the awe in his voice suggested something more… "So long as Shianni and the others are safe, that's all that matters. Now go to them."

Soris complied, leaving Sagramor amidst the blood-drenched and wrecked bedchamber with his battered cousin. Somehow, a water-filled copper basin had managed to escape the mayhem, and the dark-haired elf gently led Shianni over, scrubbing her hands and upper arms with some soap, guiding her along as he might a small child. "You killed them, didn't you? You killed them all?" she asked, frantically working to remove the blood.

"All of the humans who hurt you, yes," was the answer.

"Good. Good," the girl sniffled, burying her head in his chest, the tears flowing freely now.

"Don't worry, Shianni, it's going to be alright," Sagramor lied, feeling her slim body wrack with sobs. He had failed to protect her when she needed him most, and Nola had ended up paying the price for his weakness as well. And after what Vaughan and his cronies did to her, many of the more conservative alienage folk would doubtless render her a pariah. After all, what true elven man would ever want a woman who had been so tainted… human-spoilt? _I'm such a failure. What good is a warrior who can't defend the helpless when they are threatened?_

But he could not give in to self-pity right now. Shianni needed him, and she had suffered far worse things than a few wounds in battle. She needed support, and Sagramor vowed to be strong for her, no matter what. He could beat himself up later, once they were safely home.

The shuffle of feet drew his attention, and he sighed in relief at the sight of Soris and the remaining three women, all unharmed. "Is…she going to be alright?" Valora asked in a small voice, shuddering at the sight of all the blood.

"She will be. Vaughan and the others just roughed her up a bit," Sagramor answered, drawing a bemused glance from Shianni. "What about you? Are any of you injured?"

"No, we're fine," said Nesiara, eyeing her betrothed nervously. Only a few hours before, she was preparing to marry this man; now, Sagramor was more akin to a forgotten elven war god than a man, wedding clothes smeared with gore, the angular lines of his face intimidating rather than warm, seemingly ignorant of the wound to his shoulder. "I think they were saving us for later, your friend got the worst of it."

"Wait, where's Nola?" the third girl asked frantically, and Sagramor chided himself for forgetting her name.

"She's dead," the dark-haired elf replied, wiping the blood of his sword before sheathing it. "I…wish we could have saved her. But we should get out of here."

Galen appeared at the doorway, bearing the laundry sacks and looking more than a little ill. "Oh, Maker, I think you killed all of them."

"You're certain?" questioned Sagramor.

Galen nodded, doing his best not to become sick in front of the others. "I checked the grounds once the fight broke out, and I think even the gate guards came inside to stop you. The entire garrison…" He shook his head, the sheer weight of the bloodshed almost mind-boggling. "If we move quickly, we should be long gone before any more soldiers come to investigate."

"Agreed. Soris, you're rearguard. Ladies, would you look after Shianni?" he asked, quickly rummaging around the drawer of Vaughan's desk. His hands closed over a leather pouch, and he smiled despite himself as coins jingled within. _This will help the Alienage a great deal._ "I'll lead the way. I think we've all had enough of this place."

The little column made their escape, past the slaughter that had marked Sagramor's passage, away from the bedroom that would form the centerpiece of Shianni's nightmares, and into the sunlight where, for good or ill, the consequences of the rescue would be played out.

* * *

A/N: _And so ends one of the darker chapters in Sagramor's tale. The next one will see the completion of the Origin portion of the game, and begin his journey to Ostagar. As always, all your comments, favourites, follows and views are very much appreciated! Until next time!_


	3. Sagramor of the Grey

**A/N: **_First of all, thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read, review, fave and follow this story, I really appreciate it, and it only motivates me to work even harder! This chapter took longer to write than I'd hoped (probably because I jinxed it by saying how easy it would be :) ), but I hope you like it all the same. As ever, I'd love to hear any and all comments, suggestions and constructive criticism you have, it does help make me a better writer. Without further rambling, enjoy!_

* * *

**The Grey Path Chapter Three – Sagramor of the Grey**

The sun had passed its zenith by the time the elves returned to the relative safety of the Alienage, battered and scarred, but alive. The way back was a dangerous one; fearing that they might be stopped and uncovered by the city guards, they instead went through the poorer neighbourhoods and labyrinthine back-alleys that intersected the length of the city. If any of the humans they walked past were interested in causing trouble, then the sight of the blood on their clothes and Sagramor's merciless expression were enough to deter them.

By the grace of the Maker, the southern gate into the Alienage was unguarded, the human soldiers only concerned with the movement of elves in the city after nightfall. Their blades had returned to their hiding places within the laundry sacks, along with the stolen coins, and Shianni's injuries were concealed beneath a fresh, plain gown, so they were able to walk right in without arousing suspicion. For the first time in a long time, the sight of the wooden perimeter walls, sagging shacks and the _vhenadahl_ tree made Sagramor want to dance for joy. He knew on some level that this sense of security was an illusion, but for the moment, the women were safe.

Valendrian, Cyrion and Duncan met them just beyond the mouth of the gate, the latter now bearing the blue-and-grey gryphon tabard of the Wardens over his armour. Pushing his way past the others, Cyrion embraced his son in a tight hug, whispering prayers of thanks for his safe return, but Sagramor was numb to it all. "You've returned!" the Elder declared in relief, examining the young men and women with paternal concern. "Has Shianni been hurt? Where is Tormi's daughter, Nola?"

"I'm fine, but Nola's dead," Shianni responded, downcast. "The humans…they killed her, Elder, and she did nothing wrong."

"We would have brought back her body," Soris added, "but there was no time, and we needed to look after everyone else."

"It was my decision, Elder," interjected Sagramor. "I made that call, and I alone should be punished for it."

The Elder sighed, not in disappointment with the youngster's actions, but out of grief for the slain girl. "You did the right thing, child. We must pay homage to the dead, but not if it means leading the living to the same fate. Ladies, would you take Shianni to home? She needs rest."

"You two go with them," Sagramor told Soris and Galen as the women made for Cyrion's home. "Soris, you also might want to see that cut tended to. Once the women are settled, I'm sure the Elder will come and patch you up."

"Of course, child, Sagramor speaks truly. Go back home. I will attend to you as soon as possible."

"Right," said Soris, presenting Duncan's sword back to him. "Thank you again for your help, Grey Warden."

"It was my pleasure to assist, young Tabris. Now do as your Elder bids. All will be well," Duncan replied in an even, but commanding tone, wiping down the blade before re-sheathing it. His gaze met Sagramor's, and the young elf knew that Duncan understood the truth of matters.

Once the others had left, Valendrian turned to Sagramor, brimming with urgency and no small amount of desperation. "Now tell me, what happened?"

"Vaughan's dead, along with the palace garrison," Sagramor answered. "I don't think any soldiers escaped to sound the alarm elsewhere."

"But they will discover his death eventually," Duncan stated matter-of-factly. "The city garrison may already be on their way, as we speak. You have little time."

"It might be best for me to leave Denerim for a time," suggested Sagramor. "If they're busy hunting me, then they might leave the rest of you alone."

"You don't know that, son," Cyrion said. "There are plenty of places in the Alienage where you can hide, and we'll do our best to protect you."

"Then they'll consider the entire Alienage guilty, and punish you all. No, if I run, they'll have to chase me."

"Do you have any experience or knowledge of surviving in the wilderness?" Duncan questioned. "You may find it more difficult to stay on the run than you might think."

"What should I do then, Grey Warden? Staying here would only cause more trouble for everyone else, and I can't fight every soldier in Denerim all by myself!"

"So you would undertake the course of action, knowing that your chances of survival are slim, all to protect those who cannot defend themselves?"

"Yes," Sagramor said without hesitation. "Maybe it's foolish, but it's the only thing I can think of."

A cry of alarm sounded from the bridge into the Alienage, and another elf approached, panting in exertion and terror. "The guards are here! A full dozen!"

"Don't panic," Valendrian ordered softly, remaining calm in the face of potential disaster. "Let us see what comes of it."

Moments lately, the guards marched in, a dozen men as warned, all heavily armed and armoured. "I seek Valendrian, Elder and administrator of the Alienage," declared their Captain, a grey-bearded veteran who carried himself with the authority of a lifelong soldier.

"Here, Captain," the Elder said, stepping forward to greet the human. "I trust you are here about this morning's incident?"

The Captain scoffed at this. "That is a trivial matter compared to my business here today, Elder. Don't play ignorant with me, good ser, for you'll not prevent justice from being done." His voice rose to a volume suitable for chewing out raw recruits on the parade grounds at Fort Drakon, drawing every elf in hearing range towards him. "The Arl's son lies dead in a river of blood that runs through the entire palace, along with two other nobles of the blood! So too are the score of men assigned to defend the Arl's home while he fights alongside your King in the south! All of them, murdered most foul by elves from this very alienage!" Indignation coloured his voice, as he thundered, "I want names, Elder, and I want them now!"

As the Captain spoke, all Sagramor could think upon were Vaughan's threats, his promise of a purge to follow his death. He thought of the Alienage burning, of brutal soldiers going from house to house and slaying all they found, of more elven women seized and violated, of families destroyed and children orphaned. He thought of everyone and everything he knew and loved laid waste in the memory of a spoiled and depraved nobleman unworthy of his rank, his father's lands, his title and even his life.

He would not allow it.

"It was me," the dark-haired elf spoke, and Cyrion's jaw dropped open in horror. "I slew Bann Vaughan of Denerim, and the guards of the Arl's palace. I am the guilty party, Captain, and I acted alone."

The Captain gave an incredulous double-take at this. "You mean to tell me that one man did all _that?_ Maker's breath, it's like a demon went through the palace! You expect me to believe that a single elf was responsible for the deaths of close to twenty-five men?"

"We are not all so helpless, Captain," Valendrian stated, his cool tone masking the steel of his defiance.

Grumbling under his breath, the Captain considered the situation. It was obvious that the elf had been involved in some fashion, given the shoulder wound and the blood on his clothes. But was he the only one? Privately, he doubted that a single man, much less an elf, could be responsible for all that mayhem. Then again, he was uncertain that any accomplices would surrender so quietly, and he had no desire to see his men ambushed and torn to ribbons in the narrow and winding alleys of the Alienage. A scapegoat on which to pin the blame seemed like the cleanest solution for all involved, and if this elf was so eager to martyr himself, then so be it. "Very well. I do not envy your fate, young man, but I do applaud your courage," he admitted grudgingly, before turning to his subordinates. "Arrest him! It's the cells of Fort Drakon for this one!"

The guards advanced, a few levelling spears at Sagramor in the event he attempted to fight back. But the elf did not resist as his hands and wrists were secured with heavy iron manacles, nor did he show any sign of emotion when his father pleaded with the guards for his release. _I will not show fear_, he told himself as they began to drag him away. _They may take my life, but they will not take my pride, and they will see that an elf of the Alienages dies without fear!_

It seemed, however, that fate was not yet done with him, for Duncan walked over to the Captain, the tabard of the Wardens present for all to see. "Captain, if I may?"

The Captain frowned at this sudden intrusion, immediately recognizing his heraldry. "What is it, Grey Warden? I have the situation well in hand, as you can see."

"Be that as it may, I hereby invoke the Grey Wardens' Right of Conscription. I remove this elf from your custody, and recruit him into my Order."

"What? You cannot do such a thing!" the Captain roared. "He is a murderer-"

"And the Right of Conscription allows me to recruit even kings into the Grey Wardens if I so desire," Duncan reminded him in a polite, even tone. "Moreover, the Right predates even the Chantry itself, and once it has been invoked, not even the King can override it. Speaking of which, the King has given us his blessing to recruit as we see fit. I will be travelling to Ostagar shortly, and would be happy to pass along your objections, if you wish."

"Son of a tied-down…" The Captain knew he was beaten, and acquiesced. "Very well then, Grey Warden, I cannot challenge your rights, but I will ask one thing of you. Get this elf out of my city, _today._"

"Agreed."

The manacles were unlocked, and the Captain propelled Sagramor towards the Grey Warden with a non-too gentle shove. "Take him then. Now, I need to get my men on the streets before news of the Bann's death hits." Casting one final glare at the dark-haired elf, the Captain led his men out, and within seconds, they were gone.

"You're with me now, understood?" Duncan asked Sagramor, still shocked from this sudden turn of events. "Please, say your goodbyes quickly. Time is against us, and the sooner we arrive at Ostagar, the better."

"I…" _I'm going to be a Grey Warden,_ Sagramor realized, taking a moment to compose himself. "What is going to happen to everyone here?"

"For the moment, they are fine. There are far graver matters arising that endanger all, not just your people. This was not an act of charity, Sagramor. I needed a Grey Warden and I found one! That conscripting you saved your life is only circumstance. Ferelden needs Wardens to stem this tide, and I have no doubt that you are worthy to join our ranks. Now, how soon can you be ready?"

"An hour at most?"

"Very well, I will meet you back here in one hour's time. Bring whatever you might need now; your life here is over."

As Duncan departed, Sagramor closed his eyes, trying to process everything that had happened since he woke up. He had begun the day expecting to be wed to a woman he had never met, and now..._I'm going to be a Grey Warden._ It was unthinkable, impossible. He was a good swordsman, but not spectacular, and had never experienced the full extent of true soldiering. Until he struck down the guards in the Arl's palace, he had never even slain a man. How in the world could he be worthy? And what about his family and friends? How could he leave them to go chase glory abroad? At any other time, joining the Grey Wardens would have been the stuff of fantasy, a dream come true. Now, it felt like he was running away.

Then again, he supposed he didn't have a choice. The guards would hunt him if he stayed here, and if nothing else, becoming a Warden would help him do some good for the world. He only wished it hadn't cost everyone else so much…

"Well, it looks like Duncan got his recruit after all," mumbled Elder Valendrian, putting a hand on Sagramor's shoulder. "I have no doubt that your talents will be put to good use, as much as it will pain us to lose you, child."

"There's a whole wide world out there, _hahren_. I just hope I can do some good in it."

"You have already done much good here, child, regardless of what some might say. It only saddens me that it has taken this tragedy for you to find that world."

"As am I, Elder, believe me," Sagramor said, fidgeting uncomfortably under Valendrian's gaze. "I should get prepared if I am to be ready in time."

"One last thing before you go, Sagramor," said the Elder, tone becoming even graver than usual. "When you leave this place, you will do not as merely as a Grey Warden, but as a representative of our people. As such, I hope that you will act with honour and courage in all things, and never forget where you come from."

"Of course, Elder, you have my word."

"Then may the Maker bless and keep you, Sagramor Tabris. If you'll excuse me, I must tend to our people. Farewell."

_Promise me, son, that whatever happens, you will choose to be a good man._

Sagramor headed back for home, stopping only to scour the blood off his hands and face at a nearby rain barrel. Frowning, he realized he hadn't seen his father since Duncan had invoked the Right of Conscription, and he felt his stomach drop with worry. Would he be disappointed that his son was leaving, or perhaps furious that he had little choice in the matter? Cyrion was a kind soul, but very protective of his child, and Sagramor hoped that protectiveness hadn't led him to do anything rash.

Right outside the front door to his home, Sagramor found Soris and Valora, the latter tending to the bruises and shallow cuts the former had gathered during the rescue. "Hold still, Soris," the girl said, dabbing away at a nasty swelling on his right cheek. "This herbal remedy my mother taught me should make the pain go away shortly."

"It's nothing, Valora, it's just a scratch!" Soris protested, only to mellow under the girl's tender dotage.

"You don't want it to get infected, do you?" the girl teased. "There's little worse than a gangrenous husband, so I hear."

"She's right, cousin," Sagramor contributed, smiling in bemusement. "Spending your honeymoon thrashing in bed, delirious and oozing pus from the wound hardly sounds like a good time."

"Hey, maybe Valora should take a look at your shoulder," Soris suggested. "All joking aside, she really knows her business."

Valora smiled, pleased at the compliment. "I was taught some herb-lore by my mother, back in Highever. I was hoping that I might help out those less fortunate here, maybe open up a clinic. Here," she said, passing him a small bundle of homemade poultices. "I brought these with me, just in case any of us were injured on the journey, but they'll make your shoulder good as new. I'll never truly be able to repay you for saving my life, but I hope this helps."

"I wasn't the only one who fought for you," Sagramor explained, taking the offered poultices with a nod of gratitude. "I think Soris would have stormed the palace even without me if it meant rescuing you."

"Truly?" Valora asked, eyes widening.

"Indeed. My cousin is a good man, and an honourable one. You could do far worse for a husband."

"Then I will be certain to treat him well," the girl said, giving the dark-haired elf a warm hug. "Again, thank you, for Soris, for saving me…for everything."

"Just take good care of each other, okay?"

"We will. You have our word," said Valora.

Soris and Sagramor shook hands, perhaps for the final time. "You've always been my hero, cousin, it's just official now," Soris said empathetically, noticing the weariness on the other's face.

"It took great courage for you to join me, Soris, far greater than my own. Whatever happens, I wish you both the best."

"Will you see Shianni before you go?" Soris inquired gently.

"That was the plan," the dark-haired elf admitted, scratching the back of his neck in a nervous gesture. "Is she inside and settled?"

"Yes, Nesiara and I made sure she was alright," Valora explained. "I think she just needed a bit of space to herself, that's all."

Sagramor bowed in relief. "Thank you again. Normally, I wouldn't ask this, but…"

"We'll look after her, cousin. Count on it."

Forcing the lump in his throat back down, Sagramor acknowledge their dedication with a curt nod, withdrawing into the house. He had no doubt that their road would be a hard one; he only hoped that they would find happiness in it.

The cool of the Tabris home was a welcome contrast to the heat of the midday sun, and Sagramor allowed himself a moment of weakness as he took a seat at the dining room table. The shock of all the day's events, previously supressed by rage or adrenaline or sheer force of will, came surging forth, and he held his head in his hands, hoping against hope that the tremors would cease. It was many things; first and foremost his inability to save Nola and prevent Shianni's rape, but there was more to it than even such horrors. He had tried to follow his mother's injunction as best he could, and live his life with compassion and honour, but psychologically, killing Vaughan and the guards had been as easy as shrugging off a cloak. Then there was how he had killed the pleading and unarmed Vaughan. Good men didn't cut down helpless prisoners, even if the bastards had earned it. He knew that the nobleman had deserved every bit of what he had given him; all the same, the fact that he was capable of such cruelty was humbling…and terrifying. _Exactly what else am I capable of? And what will I need to do to help stop the Blight?_

"You're leaving, aren't you?" came a small voice, and Sagramor looked up to see Nesiara standing beside him, hands folded nervously into the pocket of a worn apron. "They said that you've been recruited to join the Grey Wardens, but I wasn't sure if it was true or not."

"It is. Duncan wants us to head out within the hour," Sagramor responded, rising from his chair. Lean, powerful hands touched her shoulder, and the dark-haired elf felt the girl tremble at his touch. _She's afraid of me,_ he realized to his horror, and quickly withdrew. "I'm so sorry, Nesiara."

"For what? For rescuing me from one of the worst fates a person could experience? For being chosen to follow one of the world's most noble callings?" She gave a sad shake of her head. "You owe me nothing, Sagramor, an apology included. I just wish all this hadn't happened."

"As do I. What will you do now?"

"I'm going to go back home. Back to Highever," she whispered nervously. "There's nothing for me here, and after all that's happened…I can't stay."

"I understand. Is there anything I can do to help? Give you some money, maybe?"

"No," Nesiara replied, far sharper than she had intended. "No, I'll be fine. You and your family have been good to me, but all I need right now is to head home." She brushed past him, her gaze welded to the floor, but upon reaching the door, she allowed herself to turn. "It would have been interesting, wouldn't it?"

"Positively amazing," he murmured gently. He couldn't take Nesiara with him; not on the path he was walking. The girl deserved a stable home and a loving family, not the hardships of a life on the march, always beset by danger. She had been promised to him, but by others, not herself; ultimately, he had no right to ask her on this journey, one which would conceivably end in his death. "Whatever happens, I wish you all the best. I do mean that."

"Thank you." The girl took a single step, and then paused. "I think your friend needs you more than I do right now. Go to her, and live well." And with the squeal of the door's hinges, she was gone. Sagramor stood there, watching for a moment as if she might reconsider, before sealing away the disappointment deep inside and turning to comfort his cousin.

Like most of the alienage folk, the Tabris family had but a single bedroom in their small home; in this case, two bunk beds, with improvised curtains of salvaged cloth to ensure privacy. Shianni was seated on a lower bunk, curled up in a ball, knees drawn up to her chest protectively. She gave an uncertain smile as Sagramor walked in, biting her lower lip. "I'll give you some privacy," the young man mumbled, red-faced and kicking himself for daring to intrude.

"No, it's fine," Shianni murmured, taking his hand and leading him to sit beside her. "You took all the responsibility for what happened. You're amazing, you know that?"

"It was the least I could do. The very least." He paused for a moment, trying to compose himself, seeing the bright green eyes of his cousin reflecting her own torment. "Are you going to be okay?"

"I'm…alright," she replied in a hesitant tone. "If nothing else, I'm alive and safe now, and that's the really important thing. As far as the others know, Vaughan just…roughed me up a bit, nothing more. I just don't want them treating me like some fragile doll."

Sagramor nodded, patting her hand tenderly. "I haven't told anyone the truth about what happened. I think the Elder suspects, but I swear to you, not a word of it will pass my lips."

"You can't hide the truth forever."

"Probably not. But I won't indulge in rumour-mongering either." There was so much that he wanted to say, but his normally quick tongue was frozen, inadequate in the face of the horrors she had suffered. Instead, he pressed the pouch of stolen gold into her hands, and she gave a small gasp at the weight of it. "A thousand sovereigns would not be enough, but it's all I can do. I don't know if I'll ever be coming home, Shianni, and I may never get another chance to help you again."

"This is a lot of money," Shianni declared, dumping the sovereigns onto the bed for closer examination. "You'd honestly trust me with this much coin?"

"I would, and not just because of what you've suffered. Listen, Shianni, I pray that the humans will leave you alone after I've left, but if not, then that money will be needed. You have always tried your best to look out for everyone, and I know you'll do the right thing. Forty sovereigns could do a lot of good for everyone here. Besides, if I gave it to the Elder, he might return it, hoping that would curry some favour."

"You think that the humans will come back?"

"Maker, I hope not. But we might want to prepare all the same."

Shianni gave him a distrustful look. "And how can you be sure that I won't just drink the money away, or take it all for myself and simply leave?"

"Because you're put too much of yourself into the Alienage to abandon it now. And because you've always been the sort of woman to face her problems, not flee from them."

"That and drink them away," she muttered. After a moment's hesitation, she returned the grand majority of the coins into the pouch and stuffed it into the gap between the old mattress and bedframe. "I still think you're entirely mad, leaving all that with me."

"What can I say? I trust you, cousin."

"Apparently," Shianni responded, taking the remaining five sovereigns left on the bed and thrusting them into Sagramor's hands. "And before you get all noble and refuse, I have a feeling you're going to need the money. Please take it."

"Very well," said the dark-haired elf, submitting to Shianni's request. She was trying so hard to be strong in the face of all she had endured; he just wished he didn't have to leave her like this. "I should get ready. I'll, eh, leave you alone now."

Turning to go, Sagramor stopped as Shianni's slim fingers closed around his wrist. "They're going to write stories about you, you know? When the world was at its darkest, you were there, fire in your eyes." She embraced him, wholeheartedly, and Sagramor replied in kind, forcing the tears back. "I love you, cousin. Make us proud out there."

"I'm certain he will, Shianni," Cyrion's voice interjected, the older elf walking in, bearing a leather backpack. "He is my son, after all."

"Father-" Sagramor spoke, but Cyrion gently waved aside his protests.

"Here, for your journey," he said, placing the backpack on the kitchen table. "I called in a favour with Alarith, and he was able to give me this. From the stories your mother and grandfather told, a sturdy pack is apparently one of the most important things a warrior can possess."

"She was right," the young elf replied, testing the strength of the straps. Satisfied, he packed quickly, bundling as many clothes as he could and placing them within. An old worn whetstone and some polishing oils followed, along with Valora's poultices, a bit of old rope, an old saucepan, utensils, and a few other bits of necessary gear. Finally, some of the remaining wedding food had been wrapped up and packaged; this too made its way into the deep container. He would have liked to bring some of his book along for the journey, but he doubted the old tomes would survive the trek.

And then he was ready. His feet clad in heavy boots, the straps of the backpack sitting comfortably over his shoulders and his greatsword in easy reach, he was as prepared as he was going to be. That first step down this long road would be the hardest, but for the sake of everyone here, it was necessary. He only wished he could say something that would make it easier for all of them, but as before, his mind refused to obey.

It was Cyrion who broke the uncomfortable silence that followed. "This is not what I wanted for you, son, but if this is what the Maker planned, then I will accept. I just wished this price never needed to be paid."

"As am I, Father."

The older elf gave a sad smile, hugging Sagramor warmly. "Be strong, my son, and wise, and kind and…well, you. I have always been proud of you, and I know you will give me many more reasons to be so." He gave his son's shoulder a fond squeeze, and stood aside. "Now go. Be the hero we know you are."

Taking one last, fond look at the people and place that meant so much to him, and knowing he would never see them again, Sagramor Tabris strode out the door to meet his destiny.

* * *

Duncan met him at the gate to the Market District, leading two strong destriers by the reins, saddlebags and packs of supplies hanging from the horse's sides. "Are you prepared? Have your farewells been said?"

"As prepared as I can be, Duncan. As for my goodbyes," Sagramor shrugged, "I could spend a lifetime and it wouldn't be enough. This'll have to do."

"Well said," the Grey Warden replied, deftly climbing up into the saddle. "Can I safely assume you haven't ridden a horse before?"

"Correct," said Sagramor, clumsily aping Duncan's technique. The mare was well-trained and did not protest or shy away as, with great effort, the elf finally managed to sit himself astride the beast. "What's the plan?"

"We ride south with all speed, and pray that we are not too late to make a difference."

And then, with the flurry of hooves, the two were gone, racing away from home. At the edge of his mind, Sagramor thought he could hear Shianni saying goodbye, but the voice faded quickly, vanishing in the summer wind. The Denerim Alienage was falling further and further away, and his journey had only just begun…


	4. The Fortress At The Edge of The World

**The Grey Path - Chapter Four: The Fortress at The Edge Of The World**

South, they travelled. Always south.

The two Wardens left Denerim through Maric's Gate, continuing on the southward road past columns of singing Andrastian pilgrims and the caravans of surface dwarf merchants. Duncan was adamant that the two reach Ostagar with all haste, so the two rode until it was simply dark to continue, before rousing themselves to go on at first light. For the next few days, they continued on relentlessly, exchanging their horses at inns or courier stations for fresh mounts whenever the beasts became exhausted, the blue-and-grey tabards depicting the gyphon emblem of the Wardens enough to encourage the generosity of others. At one point, they managed to book passage aboard one of the many river barges that ferried goods along Ferelden's waterways, saving them valuable time. Farmholds teeming with labourers preparing for the eventual harvest, grim stone castles overlooking vital passes and trade routes, watermills, meadhalls and villages, all fell behind them as the miles passed, other travellers hastily making way for the pair riding with almost monomaniacal purpose.

Sagramor soon found himself infected with that purpose. The doubts and grief that had plagued him did not vanish, but were simply forced under the weight of their tiring trek and the duty he had taken up. He had no idea if he was worthy of being a Grey Warden, or if he would be capable of confronting in the challenges ahead of him, but in the end, he had been given a chance to prove his worth. For whatever reason, Duncan believed in him, and that belief was enough to get him through the bone-jarring journey south, for the moment, at least.

As such, when Duncan showed him the basics of how to establish and maintain a camp, how to set snares to trap game and survive in the wilderness, Sagramor paid attention and learned quickly, relieved by Duncan's reassurances that he was not recruited into the Warden as a servant. When called upon to stand long watches into the night, he obeyed without question, bringing his superior elven senses to bear against anything that might lurk in the darkness. When Duncan tested his fighting skills by leadening him down with a set of old plate armour and full helm, Sagramor fought on despite these handicaps, approaching every sparring session like it was open war. He always lost these, but it did give him a chance to improve his own skills and test Duncan's, and it was clear that the old Warden was a talented soldier.

On the eve of the tenth day, Sagramor sat by the fire, sharpening a nick out of his greatsword left by that night's sparring session. A chill southern wind rising from the Korcari Wilds whipped through the camp, and not for the first time, the young elf was grateful for the well-made hunting cloak draped over his shoulders. It had been a gift from Duncan, purchased at the first inn they had visited along the way; a heavier garment that extended to the knee, with a deep, pointed cowl, its collar lined with wolf fur. It wasn't exactly suitable for midsummer in Denerim, but given the severity of Ferelden winters, he had no doubt it would prove to be a lifesaver then.

Across the fire sat Duncan, in the process of maintaining his own blades. Sagramor had been uncertain about the Warden when they first met, but had come to respect him as a firm, yet kind and loyal man. So it was with no hesitation that Sagramor asked, "May I ask you some questions about the Wardens, Duncan?"

"Of course," came the older man's response. "I will answer what I can. In fact, I must apologize; I should have informed you more about the Order earlier."

"That's alright; we haven't exactly had a spare moment. First, from all the stories I read of the Fourth Blight, it is said that the darkspawn were utterly destroyed. Now, I know that lots of things are made up in the stories, even in all the real-life accounts, but why did they say so if that wasn't the case?"

"Well, primarily, it was a means of keeping order in those dark days. After all, the thought that an endless army of monsters could emerge from underground at any moment would have inspired considerable panic and discord. Garahel's forces had slain so many darkspawn following the death of Andoral, it was easier for humanity's leaders to convince themselves that the danger had truly passed. It is a belief that has not made our duty any easier."

Sagramor nodded in understanding. "Yes, you mentioned that the Wardens are few in Ferelden. Is that the case everywhere?"

"Regrettably so, for the most part. The chapters in Orlais and the Anderfels are still strong, but after four hundred years, there are many who see the Grey Wardens as a relic of the past, an unnecessary drain on their resources of their kingdoms. Many of our traditional holdings have been abandoned over time, as we have not had the numbers to properly maintain and garrison them. And all the while, the darkspawn have rebuilt their strength, and unlike the leaders of men, their convictions will never waver."

"It is said that the darkspawn are more akin to a force of nature than an army."

"That is correct," Duncan asserted. "To face the darkspawn is to face an enemy bent solely on death. And they are all the more dangerous during a Blight, because the presence of an Archdemon gives them a united will and purpose. You will be tested in the days to come."

"I just hope that I'll be able to pass that test, Duncan." Shaking aside the self-doubt, Sagramor posed his next inquiry. "And how many other Grey Wardens are here in Ferelden now?"

"About a dozen, plus the new recruits like yourself. When word of the Blight reached us, we sent out a call west to the Grey Wardens of Orlais. With luck, they will soon join us, and bring the Empire's army to bolster Ferelden's defenses."

"Would the nobility even permit that?" Sagramor asked incredulously. He was a student of history, and knew that the seventy-five year occupation of Ferelden by the Orlesian Empire still bore its marks upon the country. Even the alienage folk, almost inured to endless hardship, remembered the rule of the sadistic Usurper King Meghren with equal parts fear and contempt. "It's only been thirty years since King Maric threw out the Orlesians to begin with, I can't help but think that some will protest."

"Of course. Fortunately, King Cailan understands the nature of the threat Ferelden faces, and has accepted Orlais' offer of aid. And even if he did not, the Orlesian Wardens would still join us. Remember that the Order is neutral in political affairs. Defeating the darkspawn is and must be our only concern, and we will require unity to achieve that." Duncan looked wary for a moment before continuing. "On that note, I must ask that when we arrive at Ostagar, you maintain a civil and approachable attitude towards any nobles you might encounter. We cannot afford to turn them against us at this point."

Bristling at the implication, Sagramor assented nonetheless. "You can trust that I'll be civil to _any _humans I meet, Duncan, noble-born or commoner, but if any of them force themselves on a servant or something like that, all bets are off."

"Very well," sighed Duncan, "that will suffice. Have you any more questions at the moment?"

"Just one," said Sagramor.

Duncan raised an eyebrow. "As you wish."

"Why me?" the young elf asked. "The threat that you're describing, I'm not sure if I'll be able to make a difference against it. I'm not even that great a fighter! Maker, there must have been a hundred more worthy candidates for recruitment in Denerim, all manner of knights and fighters and soldiers; why not use the Right of Conscription on all of them! I don't mean to sound ungrateful for all you have done for me, but…"

"You wonder if you will be able to live up to the strength others see in you," Duncan finished. "First of all, the Right of Conscription is a tool of recruitment only to be used sparingly. If it were invoked too often, it would sour the people against the Grey Wardens and turn them against us. We can use it to bolster our numbers in desperate circumstances, as well as bring in promising recruits like yourself who cannot be recruited by any other means. But even if we could employ it widespread without consequence, we would not. All those knights and fighters and soldiers you mentioned may be effective in battle, but we look for qualities beyond that in our aspirants." The elder Warden fixed Sagramor with a hard stare, and the elf swallowed nervously at the intensity of it. "You acted against Vaughan to protect those who could not defend themselves. You engaged suicidal odds to achieve your objective, and never once considered abandoning the cause. You did what was necessary, regardless of the opinions of others, never shirked your responsibility, and you _succeeded._ How many others can claim the same?

"It has always been the strength of the Grey Wardens that we see talent where others do not, that we recruit those ignored or looked down upon and turn them into something greater. Remember that four centuries ago, another elf was recruited into our Order, and he ended up defeating the Blight. Just like Garahel, you too are capable of making a difference. I invoked the Right of Conscription because I trust that you are capable of the task ahead. Now, you must trust in yourself." The old Warden gave a reassuring smile. "Now, you should get some rest. We will reach Ostagar soon at this pace, and I need you clear-headed and ready for anything."

Nodding, Sagramor laid down upon his bedroll and closed his eyes, trying to will himself to sleep. What had happened at the wedding… he would never be able to escape it, never be able to overrun the guilt and the longing for his family.

But he would not let it destroy him. He was alive, he had a sword that he knew how to use, and there was a world that needed protecting, so he could not in good conscience give in. If it was his destiny to becoming a Grey Warden, then he would embrace it, not spend his days lamenting and waiting for it to swallow him whole. Wrapping his cloak tightly about him, he began to drift asleep, wondering why it was that Duncan always insisted on taking the first watch, if not several…

* * *

A few hours later, Sagramor awoke to the sensation of Duncan shaking him by the shoulder. "Duncan-"

The older Warden silenced him abruptly, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "The camp is in danger and we are about to be attacked. I need you to bring your sword and stand watch over the horses. If I am to fall, you are to ride to Ostagar with all haste and inform of the other Wardens of what has transpired. Do as I say!"

Heeding Duncan's words, Sagramor quickly took up his greatsword and a pair of leather gauntlets, heart pounding with tension. He would have liked to put on some additional armour, but the urgency of the Warden's one suggested that there was simply no time. Drawing forth his longsword, Duncan covered it in ashes from the firepit to dull the blade. "I'll be back shortly. Stay quiet, and stay safe," he ordered, darting into the darkened woodlands that surrounded their camp.

Drawing his greatsword, Sagramor stood next to the horses, forcing himself to breath slow and stretch out his limbs in preparation for battle. Until his recruitment, he had never been outside of Denerim's walls, so the sights and sounds of the countryside were largely alien and unfamiliar, particularly after nightfall, where darkness and weariness worked to befuddle the mind. For the first few nights, everything was a source of peril; the wind whistling through the trees became bounty hunters and watchmen under orders from Arl Urien to slay him in retaliation for Vaughan's death; the rustling of small animals through the undergrowth became darkspawn creatures, ready to pounce. Time had taken the edge off, but now, roused from slumber and facing peril, the fear returned.

Blood pounding in his ears, Sagramor willing himself to calm, peering into the night. The fire had long gone cold, but his grey eyes saw in the dark well enough, and he could see neither hair nor hide of an enemy. Refusing to relax his vigilance, the elf considered how Duncan, with his lesser senses, could have known of a foe's presence when he did not. Simple experience? Had he been so weary as to be oblivious to the world around him, even in sleep?

Then he caught the smell; a rank, vile odour, the combination of spoiled milk, rotting meat and vomit. An instant later, Sagramor heard dazed footsteps crunching on fallen leaves, a thick gurgling cough, broken only by deranged mutterings as the figure staggered into the clearing.

It was a human, a farmer by the looks of him, his practical garb soiled with dirt and blood. A chill ran up Sagramor's spine as he saw the newcomer's face; blotchy and pallid and covered with weeping sores and bublous tumours. Milky-white eyes stared in the elf's direction, while blackened saliva ran down his jaw to stain the grass. "It's so beautiful," he muttered, raising arms covered in lesions. "It's so wonderful to hear…"

"Who are you, ser? What's wrong?" Sagramor asked, raising his blade in a defensive stance. This man was very, very sick, and as much as he wanted to give aid, Duncan's warning was fresh on his mind.

"It's the song!" ranted the human, coughing forth a fresh batch of saliva. "I hear so much now, I understand everything! The whole world, united in song! It will be beautiful!"

"What song?" demanded Sagramor. Behind him, the horses whinnied in fright. "I have some medicines that might help, ser, but you need to stay right where you are."

"You do not understand. You do not _listen!"_ barked the pitiable creature. A chunk of hair fell from his skull, and he shambled forward, reaching behind his back. "But I will make you listen."

The knife emerged, a crude, rusted thing, blade sodden with blood. "Stay back," Sagramor warned, aghast at the sight. Had Duncan fallen, silent and unnoticed in the darkness? "This is your last warning. I don't want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. Stand down."

The vile stench accompanying the stranger increased many-fold, and Sagramor turned to see a half-dozen more emerge from the night to surround him; men and women, all bearing the same sickness. "_We_ will make you listen," the first snarled, rushing forward headlong. "Listen listen listen listen_ listen listen listen LISTEN!"_

The blow was poorly directed, a mad slash that Sagramor quickly dodged before running the assailant through. But then the others were upon him, lashing out with shovels and pitchforks and blacksmith's hammers, frenzied, wild, driven insane, completely unconcerned with self-preservation. They were beyond reason, beyond saving.

Only one course of action left.

Sagramor met their advance, scything through the first of the attackers in his mad rush, twirling the blade and driving it into the next. Shockingly, the madman seized the hilt and pinned the sword into his own body. Sagramor fought to retrieve it, but the foe had a strength that was utterly unnatural for someone so sick and mortally wounded, and the third of their number lunged for the elf, hands closing around his neck. "_You will listen!"_

Gasping for each breath, the air now rank with their rot, Sagramor punched his assailant straight in the mouth, once, twice, thrice, sending him spinning away, spitting black blood. But there was more, always more, swarming him, burying him under the weight of numbers, the night split with the sounds of their insane ranting, the scream of the horses and the elf's cries of defiance. His belt knife shone for a moment before he plunged it into a foe's heart, and he was dimly aware that whatever ague had affected them so might be contagious…

And then the pressure suddenly lifted as Duncan appeared, left hand ripping one of the attackers off him while the longsword in his right impaled the lunatic. The remaining three abandoned Sagramor and launched themselves at the older Warden, but Duncan was shadowfast, and three severed heads fell to the ground. "Are you alright?" Duncan asked, pulling Sagramor to his feet. "Have you suffered any wounds? Did any of their blood enter your mouth, anything of that nature?"

"No, I don't think so," Sagramor replied, quickly running his hands over his body to check. He had gotten through that fight more-or-less unscathed, though he doubted he would have remained so for much longer without Duncan's intervention. "I owe you my life."

"You are to be a Warden, Sagramor Tabris," Duncan replied, striding over to the final attacker, still lying on the ground and spitting out broken teeth. Rearing up, he made to attack, only to be cut down with a quick slash. Duncan, the elf noted, was fairly splattered with the ink-black blood of their attackers, but seemed to pay it no heed. It seemed there had been more out there, all of which Duncan had ruthlessly dispatched. "The Wardens look after their own."

"What in the Maker's name was wrong with them? They were utterly out of their minds!"

"Ghouls," Duncan explained. "Men and women infected with the darkspawn taint. It strips them of their reason, their sanity, everything but the will to serve their dark masters. There should not have been any this far north…"

"Could something have happened to the forces at Ostagar, then?"

"Unlikely. If they were either destroyed or forced to retreat, then we would know. There is only one truly efficient route for the horde to take in order to enter Ferelden from the Wilds, but there are passes acceptable for small bands such as this. We should be cautious."

"Agreed," said Sagramor, suppressing a shudder of fear. "If I had been infected…"

"Then you would have become one of them," finished Duncan. "The blood of ghouls and other Blight-tainted creatures is not as potent or infectious as the darkspawn themselves; dangerous, but merely being in their presence will not spread the taint. Still, it does not hurt to be careful. We should leave this place immediately, in case more arrive."

"Right, right," Sagramor muttered, calming the horses before throwing his things together. Within minutes, they were gone, speeding into the darkness as safely as they could manage, the blood and bodies of the ghouls the only signs of their passing.

* * *

Three days later, they crested a small hill, and Sagramor first laid eyes upon Ostagar.

A thousand years earlier, the Tevinter Imperium had stretched across the boundaries of the known world, an empire fuelled by dark magic and slavery and commanded by the twisted magisters. The Imperium had advanced in every direction, seeking new lands to conquer and resources to exploit, before eventually finding their way to the edge of the Korcari Wilds, a strange and inhospitable wilderness at the edge of the world.

Even for the Tevinters, with their endless hunger for land, slaves and blood, the idea of conquering the Wilds ultimately proved to be unfeasible. The land was too harsh, too distant from the Imperium's settled territories, and the cold swamps and forests provided little of material value. Moreover, the Chasind Wilders that dwelt within paradoxically seemed to be both too scattered and few to make the Imperium's slave trade profitable here, while at the same point, being able to unify into considerable hosts to bedevil the northern invaders.

And so, the unstoppable Tevinter war machine halted their southwards advance, and to shield themselves from the Wilders, erected the fortress of Ostagar. Built high upon the cliffs overlooking the Wilds, Ostagar had repelled numerous Chasind assaults during the Imperium's reign, and had never been breached or captured by the enemies of Tevinter.

Of course, it was eventually all for naught. The First Blight had destroyed much of the Imperium over the course of two hundred years, weakening its hold over the outlying territories. Andraste's Exalted March had nearly finished the job, forcing the Imperium to abandon southern Thedas before the Prophet's betrayal at the hands of her mortal husband Maferath. Ostagar had been vacated and left to rot, but even time and neglect could not bring it down.

The sight of the old fortress was breathtaking, and Sagramor allowed himself a moment to stare in wonder. Ostagar had been built to protect a narrow pass that led into the fertile heartland of what was now Ferelden, and he was stunned by the sheer hundred-foot walls that covered the gorge and by the numerous old towers built along the ramparts, one in particularly along the eastern side of the fortress reaching several hundred feet. Looking upon the old ruins, Sagramor suddenly felt small in the face of it. "How big exactly is the army?"

"Just over ten thousand men," Duncan answered. "A considerable host, but not as large as it could be. When I left King Cailan at the assembly point, many of Ferelden's nobility had yet to commit their forces. I can only hope since the following battles, additional reinforcements have arrived to bolster our numbers."

"You mean they've already engaged in the darkspawn?"

"Three times prior, and after each battle, the darkspawn simply retreated into the Wilds to bolster their numbers with reinforcements emerging from the Deep Roads. By now, they look to outnumber us significantly."

"Will the forces we have be enough to stop the darkspawn? If nothing else, Ostagar looks like it can be defended."

"I do not know if our numbers are sufficient, but you are correct in your assessment of our defenses. Even a thousand years later, Ostagar is a bastion to be respected. It must be, if we are to stop the Blight."

"And what if we can't hold them here, Duncan?" Sagramor asked. "If the fortress is breached, then what?"

"Then Ferelden will fall," the elder Warden intoned gravely.

Leading their horses on, the two Wardens dismounted at an impromptu bastion on the eastern edge of the fortress meant to watch for threats coming along the road. The horses left in the hands of trained grooms and a report made about their recent nighttime ambush, they made their way beneath the shadow of the largest tower, a massive edifice that overlooked the entire fortress and the lands around it. "This area of the fortress has been designated as the King's Camp. The bulk of the army, along with the full-fledged members of the Order, are encamped in the valley below."

The elf's eyes widened. "The King's Camp? You mean-"

"Ho, there! Duncan!" came the enthusiastic boom, and Sagramor turned to witness the speaker approach, accompanied by a quartet of knights in full plate, the human's golden armour and blonde hair shining in the sun. For a moment, the elf froze in utter disbelief.

"King Cailan," Duncan greeted the newcomer, giving a small bow. "I didn't expect-"

"A royal welcome?" the King of Ferelden quipped, placing a friendly hand on Duncan's shoulder. He was a young man in the prime of life, perhaps about twenty-five years of age, tall, vigorous and well-built, with a confident demeanour and a lust for life. He was the heir of Maric the Savior and a scion of Calenhad the Great's bloodline, inheriting the land that his father had liberated from the yoke of the Orlesian Empire and restored to its former glory; yet if he felt the weight of all that history and the shadow of his lineage, he gave no sign of it. For better or for worse, Cailan was not an elder statesman or a peerless diplomat, but a fighting king, a man far more comfortable drinking with and warring alongside his soldiers than politicking with domestic nobles and foreign dignitaries. "I was beginning to think you'd miss all the fun!"

"Not if I could help it, Your Majesty," came the wry reply.

"Then I'll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all. Glorious!" Cailan crowed. "The other Wardens told me you found a promising recruit. I take it this is he?"

"Indeed, Your Majesty. Allow me to introduce-"

The King gave a small snort of derision. "There's no need to be so formal, Duncan, we are to be riding into battle together, after all." Walking over, Cailan enthusiastically shook Sagramor's hand, as if they were two old comrades finding each other, and not a King and the lowest of his subjects. "Ho there, friend, might I know your name?"

"Sagramor Tabris, Your Majesty, of the Denerim Alienage," said the elf, pulling his hood back. In ordinary circumstances, he might have considered bowing, but Cailan didn't appear to be particularly overly concerned with courtly formality.

"Ah! Good old Denerim. It has been some time since I've returned home." The King gave him a curious look. "Tell me, how is the Alienage? My guards all but forbid me from going there, though I can hardly understand why. The Alienages have served Ferelden well and given your people a chance to live free, after all."

_Yes, we're free to starve and rot and be spat upon, when your vassals aren't taking time from their schedules to brutalize us,_ Sagramor mocked inwardly, forcing himself to bury his anger. "In truth, Your Majesty, my people live hard lives full of challenge, and while I would hesitate to remind you of your duty, the attention and aid of Ferelden's King would be a great boon to us."

"Oh?" Cailan inquired.

"Indeed, Your Majesty. Despite what you may have heard, the Alienage folk are both hard-working and dedicated to Ferelden, yet many of your subjects look down upon and mistreat them. Ferelden's elves are no threat to any, yet are persecuted and marginalized all the same. Given the chance to improve their condition, I have no doubt they would prove to be the most productive members of Ferelden society."

"Indeed?" said the King, brows furrowing in thought. "My father spoke well of your people, but in truth, I have not given the matter much thought since my coronation. Well, once the war is done, I'll be certain to examine the state of the Alienages more thoroughly." He gave a wry chuckle. "Always so much to do! Perhaps once the darkspawn are defeated, you can return to your people with both glory and good tidings, eh?"

"Looking forward to it, Your Majesty," said Sagramor, bowing low. He had not expected much from Ferelden's king, but presenting the needs of the elves was a rare opportunity that he had to take advantage of. If nothing else, now Cailan had no excuse for not knowing about what his elven subjects faced. "Regardless, you can depend on me to do whatever is needed to stop the darkspawn."

"Excellent. Then allow me to be the first to welcome you to Ostagar, Sagramor Tabris of the Denerim Alienage. The Grey Wardens have been desperate to bolster their numbers, and I for one am eager to help them. Should you need to assistance of any of my soldiers, feel free to ask."

"What is the status of the army, Your Majesty?" asked Duncan, eager to get down to business. "Have any more nobles committed their troops?"

"Troops from Highever have arrived, at long last," Cailan answered. "About a hundred men under Bryce's son Fergus arrived about a week ago. I put them to work as part of the scouting teams."

"But Teryn Cousland himself has not come?" Duncan inquired.

"No, he hasn't, and neither have the troops from Amaranthine. It's very strange; young Fergus told me that his father and Arl Howe would be no more than a day or two behind him." The King gave a shrug, as if the absence of two of his more notable vassals was a triviality. "Then again, the Coastlands are rather stormy this time of year, perhaps the weather delayed them? I'm sure they'll arrive eventually, but as it stands, I don't think we'll need any more men, not with how swimmingly the battles have been going."

"Your uncle sends his greetings, and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week."

"Ha! Eamon just wants in on the glory," Cailan remarked mockingly, rolling his blue eyes. "We've won three battles against these monsters already, and tonight should be no different. We've been tracking the horde's advance through the Wilds, so by the time they approach the fortress, we'll be ready to send them scurrying back into their holes."

"You sound very confident of that, Your Majesty," Sagramor remarked evenly. The King seemed entirely at ease about the impending darkspawn onslaught, and the elf had no idea if Cailan was simply putting on a carefree front for the sake of morale, or he truly believed the Blight was no challenge to his forces. For the sake of Ferelden, he hoped it was the former.

"Overconfident some would say, right, Duncan?" Cailan jested.

Duncan maintained a diplomatic, cautious tone in the face of Cailan's self-assurance. "Your Majesty, I'm not certain the Blight can be ended as quickly as you might wish."

"To be honest, I'm not even sure this is a true Blight. There have been plenty of darkspawn on the field, but alas, no sign of an Archdemon."

"Disappointed, Your Majesty?" Duncan inquired wryly.

"I'd hoped for a war like in the tales! You know, where a king rides with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god. But, I suppose this will have to do."

"We should return to your tent, Your Majesty," one of Cailan's bodyguards said, a heavyset man with greying hair. "Most likely Teryn Loghain will wish to review our strategies."

"Yes, Elric, of course. Sorry to cut this short, but I must return before Loghain sends out a search party," Cailan sighed in frustration. "Farewell, Grey Wardens."

As the King departed, Sagramor let out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. "Well, that was unexpected."

"To an extent," Duncan explained. "King Cailan is a major ally of the Wardens in Ferelden, and is one of our strongest advocates, especially with the Blight at our doorstep. And what he says is true; they've won several battles against the darkspawn so far."

Sagramor caught the elder Warden's worried tone. "But at first glance, he seems to be taking it rather lightly."

"His glibness stems in no small part from our presence. He believes that our legend alone makes him invincible, a belief he ferments to further inspire his men. I stand before that much would be expected of you; now you see why. To that end, we should proceed with the Joining ritual immediately."

"Is this some sort of initiation rite?" asked Sagramor, genuinely curious.

"Of a sort. Each Grey Warden must go through the Joining in order to become a full member of our Order. For the moment, I cannot tell you more. Suffice it to say that we do what is necessary."

Sagramor frowned as he heard that most weighty of phrases. Duncan had explained a great deal about the Wardens and the darkspawn on the journey, but the Joining had never come up. _Why would he have to hide it?_ "Very well then. What do you need me to do?"

In response, Duncan tossed him a pouch of coins. "Feel free to explore the King's Camp as you wish, all I ask is that you do not leave it for the time being. There is another Grey Warden in the camp by the name of Alistair; once you've equipped and prepared yourself as you see fit, find him and inform him that it's time to summon the other recruits. Once that is done, the next step of your initiation begins."

"Understood, Duncan, and thank you."

"Do not thank me just yet. There are many trials left to come," the older man intoned, bowing to the recruit before he turned and walked away.

"Somehow, I knew that would be the case," Sagramor muttered darkly. "Nothing could ever be easy, could it?"

* * *

_A/N: Originally, this chapter was going to be a lot longer; I had plans to cover everything from the journey to Ostagar, up until Sagramor and the other recruits head into the Wilds, but it ended up being just a bit big and unwieldly, especially given that the ending of his meeting with King Cailan was a good point to break it up. So, if you're wondering why you're waited so long for so little (relatively speaking), that's the reason why: one chapter has become two, and this new Chapter Five is being worked on now, and a lot of progress has been made._

_Regardless, I hope you all have had a wonderful holiday season, and best of luck to you in the new year. And as ever, your comments, favourites, views, constructive criticism and general support are all very much appreciated._


	5. The King's Camp

**The Grey Path – Chapter Five: The King's Camp**

Crossing the bridge that spanned the gorge, Sagramor permitted himself a moment of rest to shake off the aches and pains of his long journey. Leaning on the ramparts, the young elf took in the endless swamps and forests, and in the distance, snow-capped peaks so tall they seemed to pierce the sky. At least a hundred feet below him in the gorge, the Army of Ferelden made preparations for the next battle. The elf's keen grey eyes witnessed barricades being assembled, companies of spearmen and greatsworders drilling, while the wind was alive with the sounds of shouted orders and boastful cheers. Further back, nestled at the northern mouth of the gorge lay a massive camp, itself fortified and packed to the brim with the cream of Ferelden's soldiery, along with many of their families, retainers, servants, stewards, priests, peddlers, armourers, camp followers, labourers and all of the other non-combatants who frequently followed in the wake of armies. It was clear that this was an experienced and well-prepared host; had Duncan and King Cailin never mentioned those missing nobles, he doubted he would have even noticed.

"Enjoying the view?" a woman's voice asked teasingly, and Sagramor turned to see one of the King's soldiers approaching; a young woman of raven hair and pale skin, her steel breastplate freshly polished beneath the hounds-rampant surcoat, and a greatsword resting in a sheath at her back. "It's not so pretty once the darkspawn swarm all over the landscape, but for the moment, it's nice enough."

"You speak from experience?"

"Well, three battles worth of fighting the monsters certainly counts," she said, gazing upon him with startlingly blue eyes. "If nothing else, it certainly gives you an appreciation for the simple things in life. But where are my manners? Corporal Marian Hawke, Third Company of the King's Own," she introduced herself, offering her hand.

Sagramor took it, feeling her strength beneath the gauntlet. "Sagramor Tabris, of the Wardens."

"A pleasure to meet you, Sagramor. I've seen the Wardens in action since the army arrived. The King's trust is well-earned, I can say that much. If you don't mind, why are you not in the main camp with your fellows?"

"In truth, I've only just arrived," the elf admitted sheepishly. "I'm just a new recruit to the Order, and our Commander, Duncan, asked me to get equipped and find another Warden here in this camp."

"There's no shame in that. Everyone has to start somewhere, right? Well, I'd be happy to show you around. Captain Varel has me running an errand up here, so I'm heading to the quartermaster anyways."

The two warriors fell in step, passing companies of archers drilling along the ancient bridge. "As I understand it, this is the King's Camp, correct?" Sagramor asked.

"Right," said Hawke. "The bulk of the army is down below, but this space on the cliffs has been reserved for the King and his entourage, along with most of the other notables. We have the Circle of Magi here, along with a pack of those bloody Templars lurking around them. Teryn Loghain is here, the Grand Cleric… If you're looking to find key figures in this army, this is the place. Myself, I'm downstairs with all the real soldiers," came the quip.

"So what brings a real soldier up here then?" Sagramor replied with equal good humour.

"Captain Varel had a new greatsword forged for himself by the blacksmiths up here. The main camp has its own logistical staff, but on occasion, we've asked those in the King's Camp to help out. It's a job for a messenger, actually, but the Captain wanted at least some of us to know the layout of the defenses on the cliffs, if we're ever forced to retreat."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"Agreed. The King's Camp is very secure because the trails and paths leading up to the cliffs are narrow and winding. It's good if the darkspawn try to storm the heights, but there's no way the army will be able to quickly retreat up them en masse. That's one of the reasons why the bulk of the army is encamped on the low ground; if the darkspawn attacked, there's no way a significant force could deploy from the heights to stop them in time."

"How's morale? Will the army hold?" Sagramor asked.

"They'll hold, I promise you that," Hawke replied firmly. "The King thinks this is all going to end with one huge battle the bards will sing about for centuries, and most of the men were determined to prove him right. As for me…" The young woman gave a small shrug. "I like to hope for the best and plan for the worst. In either event, we'll have our work cut out for us."

The two entered the King's Camp proper, and Sagramor took Hawke's tale to heart, grey eyes catching every detail possible for future reference. The mages had their own encampment on the southern side, just behind the battlements, their tents hidden behind a crude palisade and surrounded by the plate-armoured templars of the Chantry. Several of the mages were moving about the camp, though the grand majority of those did so under templar guard, the Chantry unwilling to allow their control over the Circle to slip, even in the face of the Blight. Further west, the young elf could hear hounds barking and men crying out in pain, while groups of priests roamed around the camp, offering blessings and comfort to the assembled soldiers. To his pleasant surprise, Hawke was not the only woman-at-arms present; more than a few soldiers were female, and were armed and armoured much the same as their male colleagues.

On the southwest side, nestled in the ruins of a collapsed tower and overlooking the valley, two great tents had been erected. The first was an opulent, lavish domicile; its rich, bright yellow silk befitting a king, while the second was a more utilitarian structure of heavy green canvas. Banners flanked the entranceways; the first tent marked with the hounds rampant symbol of the Crown, while the second had standards depicting a golden wyvern on a field of green, the emblem of the Terynrir of Gwaren. _That must be Loghain's tent,_ Sagramor realized, thinking back to his grandfather's stories of the Teryn and his rise to power from a simple farmboy to Ferelden's greatest general. "Have you met Teryn Loghain, Hawke?"

"Eager to find out if the man matches the legend?"

"Doesn't everyone?" replied Sagramor with genuine enthusiasm. For so many, Loghain was not merely a powerful noble, but a symbol of Ferelden's triumph; the vanquisher of the hated Orlesians and proof to the rest of Thedas that in Ferelden, any man could rise to greatness on the basis of his merits alone. _Unless you're an elf, of course,_ he mused darkly. "How often does one get a chance to meet one of the country's greatest heroes?"

"Point," Hawke remarked. "Well, I've only met him once or twice, but he seems alright. He's a very good general: he's tough, smart, knows how to inspire the men. Just don't go expecting a new drinking buddy; he's not a very sociable man, especially not these days."

"Has something in particular happened?"

"Well…" Hawke paused for a moment, blue eyes glancing about. "I really shouldn't gossip, but its better you learn this from me instead of accidently treading on dangerous ground. From what I've heard, Loghain and King Cailan have been arguing lately about Queen Anora, and while the teryn is loyal to the king, he's also the type to stand by his daughter, no matter what. Combine that with disputes over battle strategy, and the two aren't really pleased with each other right now."

Sagramor nodded in understanding, taking it all in. He had known that Cailan had been married, of course, the proclamations of a royal wedding some five years earlier had reached even the Alienage, though they had found out little about the specifics. "So Loghain isn't merely Cailan's top general and his father's best friend, but also his father-in-law."

"Exactly. And he's known Cailan since the King was a babe, so they're not really the type to stand on ceremony together, especially when they're at loggerheads," Hawke elaborated. "Myself, I think one of the only reasons we're doing so well is because of Loghain's strategies. Just… be careful what you say around him."

Frowning, Sagramor considered the implications. The two most senior leaders of the army quarreling: if they could not resolve their differences and focus on the fight ahead, it could prove disastrous. He had always heard that the nobles of Ferelden were a fractious bunch; he just hoped it wouldn't end up costing them all in the end.

"This way," Hawke urged, and the two turned north to an impromptu supply depot. Teams of labourers, many of them elves, distributed crates full of weapons and armour to waiting soldiers, honed blades on grindstones and repaired broken chainmail links. The young woman had to speak up to be heard over the constant ringing of hammers against metal. "Quartermaster Bagley? You have Captain Varel's sword ready for me?"

"Just give me a moment," the quartermaster replied irritably, engrossed in the contents of a ledger. Finally deigning to look up, the portly man gave an infuriated scowl at the sight of Sagramor. "You there, elf! Where's that armour I asked for half-an-hour ago? And why are you dressed so preposterously?" he demanded, stabbing a stubby finger at the Warden tabard.

"Because I am a Grey Warden?" Sagramor asked dryly, seeing his face turn red with shock. "And do you treat all your servants so poorly, or is today a special occasion?"

"Oh, I, eh…" stammered the quartermaster, realizing he had said far too much. "Uh, pardon my rudeness, Grey Warden, it's just that, well, things have been mixed up a bit, and those elves that've been hired are no help at all…"

Hawke gave a mocking gasp. "Truly? Workers aren't very productive when their boss holds them in contempt? I've never heard of such a concept."

"Perhaps it would be best if you treated them better in the future, ser," the elf suggested frostily. "Now then, if you're done insulting potential patrons, I am going to need some new armour, while Corporal Hawke here has to pick up a sword for her commander."

"Right, of course. Give me one moment," babbled the quartermaster, scurrying away before they took further offense.

"You definitely get results," said Hawke. "I'm rather impressed."

"I guess beautiful women just motivate me," Sagramor jested, hoping he hadn't overstepped his bounds.

Hawke laughed, flattered. "A romantic, then? Do you think that's an advantage or a liability as a Grey Warden?"

"Suppose we'll find out soon enough," replied the elf. "Quartermaster Bagley, you wouldn't happen to have any armour with additional protection over the shoulders, would you?"

The quartermaster was happy to oblige, and within the space of a few minutes, Sagramor became the proud owner of a new set of chainmail armour, with integrated plate shoulder pauldrons. The armour was flexible and relatively light, yet still tough enough to absorb a strong blow, though he imagined a strike of sufficient force could breach the interwoven steel links. Making sure that the matching gauntlets and greaves fit, Sagramor declined the offered helmets, none of which were designed to accommodate the long, tapering ears of elves. There simply wasn't time for any of the blacksmiths to forge one designed to fit, so until he could get a helm custom-made for him, he'd just have to watch out for blows directed at his head and pray to the Maker that it was enough.

Ducking away for a moment, the quartermaster re-emerged, mumbling excuses about cluttered inventory before passing Hawke a massive greatsword, the hilt stamped with the emblem of a bear. The soldier smiled as Sagramor passed the armoury staff, elves and humans alike, some coins, oblivious to the look of contempt coming from the quartermaster. "A romantic indeed. Shall I assume that rescuing kittens from trees is next on the agenda?"

"You disapprove?"

"Hardly," Hawke chuckled. "When the threat is this big, it's so easy to lose sight of the little things, and the people fighting it. Good to see that not everyone is focused solely on death and glory."

"And what about you, Corporal? What drives you?"

"My family," Hawke stated. "My little brother is part of the Third Company as well, and watching out for him is a full-time job. My mother and younger sister are back in Lothering, and right in the horde's path if we fail. Just another reason to fight, right?" she said, cracking a weak smile.

"We won't fail, Hawke. If the rest of the King's army are anything like you, we'll have the darkspawn running for the hills in no time."

"Flatterer," the young woman replied with a pleased smirk. "I should return to my unit. But it was nice meeting you, Grey Warden, and good luck to you."

"You as well, Corporal. May the Maker watch over you and yours."

"He'd better, or I'll have some stern words for him. Farewell."

"Oh, don't worry, love," a new voice interjected, and a thin human emerged beside Hawke, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. "See, I'm a Warden too, and you can count on me and my mate here keeping you safe. Of course, life is fleeting, and stranger things have been known to happen than a lovely bird like yourself getting slain by those monsters. If there are any last requests I can grant for you…"

Hawke fixed with him with a stare cold enough to snuff out an inferno. "Shall I take that as a no, then?" the newcomer asked.

A swift motion and the newcomer was on the ground, rubbing his now-tender jaw. "Interesting companions you'll have to fight alongside, Sagramor," said Hawke, relaxing her fist. "I'll see you around."

"Same to you, Hawke," the young elf said, smiling despite himself. "Now why did you ever think that would turn out well?" he asked the human who had so rudely propositioned the young woman, even as she disappeared into the crowd.

"He who dares wins, isn't that right?" came the reply as the human sprang to his feet. Crude as he might have been, he did not lie about one thing; the tabard of the Wardens had been draped over his leather armour for all to see. At his hip was a short sword, while a longbow and fully-stocked quiver hung across his back. His brown eyes were quick and more than a little shifty, looking around as if he was expecting danger to come from every corner, and he looked rather uncomfortable and out of place amongst so many soldiers. "Besides, ain't people supposed to like us Wardens? Vanquishers of the Blight and knights in shining armour and all that?"

"Maybe not to that extent, Mister…"

"Daveth, just Daveth. And you're not what I thought you'd be."

"Sagramor Tabris. And what were you thinking I'd be?"

"I don't know," Daveth said, scratching the back of his neck nervously. "I was kinda hoping for someone blonde, buxom and near-sighted, though knowing my luck, you'd be some great brute of a knight, all scarred up and with a penchant for violence. I wasn't expecting an elf, and definitely not one who's better with women than I am. Still, good to meet you. It's about time you came along; I was starting to think they'd cooked this ritual up for our benefit."

"The Joining?" asked Sagramor, genuinely curious. The human might be something of a scoundrel, and likely had a rather colourful past, but he had no reason to doubt him at this juncture. "What do you know about it?" came the inquiry as the two moved away from the depot and any potential eavesdroppers.

Daveth motioned him closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "See, I happened to be sneaking around camp last night, and I heard some of the Wardens talking a bit. Sounded like they were going to send us into the Wilds."

"Any idea why?"

"Not sure. Might be a test of our fighting skills, see if we can cut the mustard as Wardens," Daveth suggested. "There's plenty of dangers in that forest; cannibals, witches, barbarians and monsters, lots of stuff to pose a challenge. Hope you're up for it. I know Jory is."

"Jory?"

"Ser Jory, he's the other recruit. A decent fellow for a knight. Bit stiff though, probably needs a good woman," Daveth said bluntly, turning to wave over a chainmail-clad human in his mid-thirties. "Oi, Jory? Come over 'ere, the final recruit has arrived!"

"That is a relief," the man said, giving Daveth an odious glance, resentful at being seen near the flippant rogue. Jory was a solid, heavyset man in chainmail garb, hair thinning away from his wide forehead, while his dark beard was meticulously trimmed around his chin, not a hair out of place. "How do you do? My name is Jory, knight of Redcliffe."

"Good to meet you, Ser Jory, I'm Sagramor," the elf answered politely. Experience had taught him to beware human nobility and their knights, but Jory seemed like a decent fellow. "Has Daveth told you about the Joining?"

"Indeed, though it's rather strange that they would require further tests from us. We are Wardens after all, correct?" the knight posed. "That said, I was not aware that elves could even become Wardens."

"Oh, you've done it now, mate!" Daveth cackled.

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Sagramor, instantly defensive.

"I meant no offense, good elf," Jory stammered. "It's just that all of the current Wardens here seem to be human. Not that I've had much time to meet with them; Duncan has insisted that we recruits stay up here in the King's Camp." It was plain as a pikestaff that Jory resented being treated like a green newcomer, and Sagramor wondered how the pair had been recruited. "I just can't wait to prove myself on the field."

"Well, I'm sure that we'll be able to defeat anything we come across," Sagramor declared. He supposed only time would tell if either of them proved reliable in combat. "By any chance, have either of you met a Warden named Alistair?"

"Yeah, he was around here just a little while ago. Had to deliver a message to the mages," Daveth explained, shuddering visibly. "Me, I wouldn't go near those spooky types for all the gold in Denerim, but apparently he used to be a templar, so them mages shouldn't worry him."

_A templar. Wonderful. _Sagramor had only met a templar once, and it was an experience he hoped to avoid repeating. Then again, if mages were present, then perhaps he might see Nimue again, find out if she was alright. "Thanks, I appreciate it. I think Duncan's expecting us to join him shortly, we might be getting to the Joining soon."

"Hope so, the waiting's killing me," said Daveth. "Nice to meet you, mate. And if those mages turn you into a toad, try not to come near me, okay? Can't stand the things."

"Best of luck to you as well," offered Jory, frowning as a new figure approached their gathering. "Perhaps these are our orders now."

Panting, the elven messenger skidded to a halt before the Warden recruits, leather satchel flapping at his side. "Begging your pardon, Wardens, but I-" he wheezed, doubling over. "I have-"

"Bit weedy looking, isn't he?" remarked Daveth. "Hope you're a bit tougher than that, Sagramor."

Sagramor ignored the human's jibes, handing the messenger his spare waterskin. "Stand easy, messenger. What's your name?"

"It's—it's Pick, ser," the elf answered, drinking deeply.

"My name is Sagramor, Pick, and I'm no ser. Rest for a moment; you're no good to anyone if you've collapsed from exhaustion. Your message can wait for a few moments."

"Oh, I only wish," Pick blurted, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Teryn Loghain wants to see you, and he's not a man to keep waiting."

"An audience with the Teryn!" gushed Jory, visibly elated. "What a great honour! We should go to his tent right away."

"I'm sorry, ser Warden," the messenger spoke cautiously, "but I was told that the summons was for the elven Warden alone. He wants to see _you_, Sagramor."

_Well, I did hope for a chance to meet him, didn't I?_ Sagramor told himself, gently refusing Pick's attempts to return his waterskin. "Keep it, Pick, I have another. Daveth, Ser Jory, I'll see you back at Duncan," he said, idly glancing to make sure his new armour was presentable enough. He felt the first nervous stirrings rising in his chest, and tried to force them down. _You've met the King, fought ghouls and slew a noble of Ferelden. Nothing should unsettle you now._

As Sagramor walked over to the old tower hosing the tents of Loghain and the King, he immediately noticed how quiet it was in comparison to the rest of the camp, the milling and chatting soldiers absent, replaced with stoic guards, hands at their weapons at all times. These were the elite knights of Maric's Shield, the King's personal bodyguards, and the elf felt more than one pair of suspicious eyes upon him as he approached Loghain's billet.

Standing before the green-and-grey tent was one of the most formidable women Sagramor had ever seen; tall, strong and clad in knightly garb bearing the wyvern of Gwaren. An absolutely monstrous greatsword was slung at her back, and everything about her demeanour proclaimed that she knew how to use it effectively. Her dark brown hair had been drawn into a short ponytail, while on another woman, her high cheekbones and wide lips would have been a sign of great beauty, but she was too cold and stern to be truly beautiful. She reminded him of Hawke in a way, but whereas Hawke was a kind and even garrulous person, hers was a soul of iron; unbending and uncompromising. He was merely thankful that they were on the same side. "You approach the tent of Teryn Loghain, elf. State your business," the knight demanded, brown eyes boring holes right through him.

"I received a message that Teryn Loghain wished to see me, Ser…"

"Cauthrien of Gwaren, champion and bodyguard to Teryn Loghain," she declared bluntly. "You will watch your tone when speaking to him. He is not a man to be disrespected, and neither am I."

Before Sagramor had a chance to unleash a choice retort or two back at the adamant knight, the rustling of papers within the tent and a gruff male voice stopped him cold. "That will do, Cauthrien."

And Teryn Loghain Mac Tir stepped out into the light.

'Hard' was the first word to came to mind when looking upon the teryn; hard, stern, and unyielding, much like his sworn sword. Loghain had to be at least fifty, but age had not weakened him in body, mind or spirit, and Sagramor doubted if he would ever allow it to be so. From beneath great furrowed brows, dark eyes examined the Warden, looking past the bulbous nose marked with the scars of battles and sieges aplenty, while his face was pale and drawn tight, clearly unaccustomed to smiles and laughter. He was a hefty, solid man, bulked up further by the polished silverite plate armour he wore, a trophy of his triumph over the Orlesians at the Battle of River Dane. Everything about him suggested intense dedication and focus; he was the sort of man with no patience for fools, and would not accept weakness in himself or others, a man whose respect would only be earned, never given. He was a soldier's solder and a patriot, forged on the anvil of war, best friend of the late King Maric and the Hero of River Dane, and certainly not a man to be crossed. "So, you are the elven Warden I've heard so much about. What is your name, ser?"

"Sagramor Tabris, my lord, from the Denerim Alienage," answered the elf, nodding in respect. "I was told that you wished to see me."

"I did, I did. You are curious as to why?" Loghain asked, getting a muttered affirmation. "It is because at the end of the day, armies are ultimately comprised of men. Your Order has been given a place of great honour in this host, and the patronage of the King, despite your small numbers, and I intend on making sure that respect is justified. Cailin's fascination with the Wardens goes beyond the ordinary, so a sober second opinion of you and your fellows is needed." The Teryn frowned, eyes narrowing. "I cannot help but feel you are familiar, ser, though I doubt we have met."

"We have not, my lord, but my grandfather would have been known to you," explained Sagramor. "His name was Rafen Andras, he fought alongside you as part of the Night Elves during the Rebellion."

Loghain gave the barest flicker of a smile. "That is a name I have not heard in quite some time. A good man, your grandfather, for an Orlesian. You come from a worthy legacy, Sagramor Tabris. Make sure you live up to it."

"Of course, my lord. And you can rest assure that all of the Grey Wardens will work to honour the King's trust."

"Will you now?" asked the teryn, eyebrow raised. Duncan had mentioned there were some in the army who held the Wardens in scorn, but Sagramor had hoped that Loghain wasn't one of them. It was a vain hope, apparently; Loghain clearly didn't trust them. "Are you aware that his father brought your Order back to Ferelden?"

"I am, my lord."

"Maric respected the Grey Wardens, and they have an honoured place in the hearts of our people. But Maric would have understood that battles are won by strategy and discipline, not legends, particularly those so few in number. It's not an argument I'll repeat here. I suppose you'll riding off into the thick of the fighting with your fellow then, will you?"

"I am a Grey Warden, my lord," Sagramor declared, thankful for Hawke's prior consul. "For Ferelden's sake, I will go where I am needed, and do what must be done."

"Fair enough," said Loghain, turning back to his tent. "Now, I must return to my strategies for the battle tonight. You will give your commander my compliments." Pulling the canvas flaps open, the teryn moved to enter, then paused for a moment. "Are you a religious man, Sagramor of the Grey?"

"I believe in the Maker and the Prophet Andraste, if that's what you're asking, my lord. Why?"

"Then pray that our king proves amiable to reason. Cauthrien, with me," said Loghain, ducking into the tent. Sniffing in disdain at the elf, Cauthrien followed.

"Well, that was interesting," Sagramor muttered under his breath. Grandfather Rafen had always spoken of Loghain's stubborn nature, but to experience it firsthand was something else. Loghain might not respect the Wardens now, but for Sagramor, that was just another challenge. _Now, time to move on._

* * *

"And what exactly are you doing here, young man?" the mage asked. "I am far too busy at the moment to entertain idle conversations."

The subject of magic was not a frequently one discussed or considered by the elves of the Denerim Alienage, who had more immediate and temporal worries to consider. When one lived in such despair and utter poverty, danger usually came in the form of hunger or disease or corrupt guards, not rampaging demons. When the subject came up, few had anything good to say about it. Magic was the punishment for men's sins, and those who possessed such powers had to be truly wicked to deserve such a curse. It was an attitude hammered home during the infrequent visits of the Chantry's priests; with the exception of Mother Boann, they all spoke of mages and magic as evil, and admonished them to report any signs of either to the templars.

But magic had always fascinated Sagramor, yet another of his supposed eccentricities. He had studied the Chant of Light, and read every story he could get his hands on regarding mages, but aside from Nimue, he had never actually met one, at least not one in the full flower of their abilities. What were they like as people? How had their perspective changed from that of mundane society as a result of being granted such immense power, and being locked away by those who feared it?

Judging from the stern woman in front of him, perhaps very little. She was an older human, perhaps in her fifties or early sixties, and her every mannerism and word seemed deliberate, the by-product of a life of intense discipline and dedication. Sagramor could easily imagine her giving a lecture in front of a class of aspiring students, assisting those with difficulties and haranguing any shirkers in equal measure. She was… oddly normal, even grandmotherly, though it was clear she did not suffer fools lightly. "Forgive me, lady mage," the elf spoke respectfully, "but I was wondering if you could help me find someone."

"Ah, you are Duncan's new recruit, are you not? He's not a man easily impressed. You should be proud," she replied warmly. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Wynne, Senior Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle of Magi."

"Sagramor Tabris, of the Wardens," the elf said, giving a small bow.

"Well met, and good luck to you, Grey Warden. Good luck to us all, in fact. To defeat the darkspawn, we must all work together, though it is not a notion everyone seems able to grasp."

"Yes, Duncan mentioned the same thing," Sagramor reiterated, experiencing a sudden flare of worry. "Have you and the other mages been treated poorly by the rest of the army?"

"Not as much as you might think," Wynne assured him. "For the most part, I find they are simply relieved to have our aid. Mages are feared, often with good reason, but that fear should not preclude us from helping others, and if it helps to forge a positive impression of mages, so much the better." She gave him a curious glance. "Then again, there are few who seek to approach us without some sort of official business. Have you had any experience dealing with mages in the past?"

"Of a sort. When I was young, a friend of mine was taken to the Circle, an elven girl by the name of Nimue Surana." Sagramor shuffled uncomfortably for a moment before continuing. "If I may ask, have you met her before? Is she alright? Is she here with the army?"

"Ah, an old friend then. Yes, I know of Miss Surana. She is one of the finest students I have had the pleasure to teach; talented, determined, if a little wild. The First Enchanter has actually taken her on as an apprentice, his first in close to a decade. You should be proud of her."

The young Warden gave a small sigh of relief, a weight that he had never known he was carrying falling away, vanishing like sea-fog in a heavy gale. "So, she's safe then? Thank the Maker."

"She is safe, young man. In fact, before my fellow mages and I joined the army, it was my impression that her apprenticeship would soon be complete. In time, you may see her fighting alongside us."

"I'd—I'd like that," the elf confessed. "I mean, I'd like to see her again, not put her in danger. I'd never wish that. Have you fought the darkspawn yourself yet, Senior Enchanter?"

"Stragglers, yes, but not the vast horde the scouts speak of. " Wynne pursed her lips, curious. "Tell me, what you know of the connection between darkspawn and the Fade?"

"The Fade is the realm of dreams as I understand it."

"You are correct. Whenever your spirit leaves your earthly body, whether it be to dream or to die, it enters the Fade. It is a place home to many spirits, some benevolent, but many less so. And in the centre of it lies the Black City, once the Maker's home-"

"Until the magisters of Tevinter breached its gates and corrupted it," Sagramor finished, thinking back to the lectures of the Chantry. "It was the First Violation, the act that brought the darkspawn into being in the first place."

"My, it is refreshing to see a warrior so learned," said Wynne, pleasantly surprised. "Too many assume that scholarly knowledge somehow unmans them."

"Well, I've always found it better to walk into a situation with eyes open. Besides, when you have very little, you seek advantages where you find them," the elf reasoned, before posing the question that everyone pondered eventually. "Is the Chantry right, Wynne? Is that how the darkspawn were created?"

"I cannot say that for certain, young man," the mage confessed. "It may simply be allegory, a reminder that our actions have consequences. Without any reasonable alternatives, it is a good enough explanation for now, I suppose. But I doubt that Duncan wanted you to spend all your time listening to my lectures; you should prepare yourself for the battle ahead."

"Anything I can do to help you on that front?" asked Sagramor. "I'm supposed to find another Warden named Alistair, but I'm sure Duncan won't mind it if I took a few moments to assist the mages. We are supposed to work together, right?"

"Well said," Wynne remarked, drawing a long glass philter from a nearby backpack. "Bring this to the kennelmaster; he and the hounds under his care are nearby. You won't need to return once that is done, just deliver it, and he'll know what to do with it. As for Alistair, try the western ramparts. The message he was meant to deliver is for Senior Enchanter Balise, who has been preparing wards in that area for the coming battle."

"Thank you, Wynne. I'll deliver this right away," the elf said, taking his leave, a spring in his step. Nimue, alive and well! He had a thousand more questions to ask, but the mage was right; he had work to do. Perhaps everything would turn out alright after all…

* * *

"This isn't good," mused the kennelmaster, examining the warhounds with an experienced eye. "I'd hate to waste such a promising member of the breed. Are you sure that this is all she had?"

"It was all she gave me," grunted Sagramor, staring piteously at the beasts. His good mood had lasted as long as it took to reach the kennels, quickly dissipating at the sight of so many injured dogs, many of them stricken with festering sours and lesions. The kennelmaster had explained that those had been infected with the darkspawn taint, and that Wynne's solution was designed to give them a fighting chance.

Briefly, the image of the rabid ghouls ambushing them on the journey flashed before Sagramor's eyes, and he gave an unconscious shudder at the thought. The tales of past Blights had not truly conveyed the horror of the taint, and he'd hate to think of how many people were dying as a result of it seeping into their systems. Judging from the screams of agony sounding from the infirmary, far too many. "I'll assume it's not enough?"

"Well, I'll try to make it stretch, but at the rate the dogs are getting infected, there's only so much we can do. Take a look at this fellow here," he explained, gesturing towards the mabari warhound isolated in a separate pen, brown fur marred with boils and swelling. "Prime example of a mabari here, probably cost a fortune to breed. His owner was a knight from Highever who died in the last battle, and the poor fellow swallowed darkspawn blood. One of the most valuable and loyal dogs in the world, and here he is, just wastin' away helplessly. Bloody darkspawn," the human spat. "It just ain't right, Warden, it just ain't right."

"Forgive my ignorance, but what makes these dogs so special?" Sagramor asked. The dog was massive, thickly muscled and with a set of jaws that could crush a man's skull like an egg, yet it whimpered in pain like a puppy, anxious to be free.

"Mabari warhounds? Well, centuries ago, a mage bred them to be intelligent; they can understand and carry out complex orders, they can interpret our language, that sort of thing. Some people say these dogs are smart enough to talk and wise enough not to. And they're very strong; we use them in battle to rip knights from the saddle and break open enemy pike-squares and shieldwalls. Only downside is that they imprint on their owners. If he dies, then it's difficult to get them to accept a new master."

"Poor dogs," the elf said, staring at the sick hound with a mixture of horror and pity. The animal gave a miserable whine from behind its muzzle. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Well, come to think of it, would you be heading into the Wilds anytime soon?"

Increasingly grateful that Daveth had chosen to confide in him, Sagramor gave a noncommittal grunt. "It all depends on where the other Wardens decide to send me. Why do you ask?"

"There's a flower out there in the Wilds that could help improve the dog's chances. It's very distinctive, all-white with a blood-red centre, usually grows in ground pools around dead wood at this time of year," the kennelmaster explained. "Bring me some of those, and I might able to stabilize their condition."

"A cure for the Blight?" Sagramor asked incredulously.

"It's a treatment, not a full-fledged cure. I've found that an ointment made from the flowers can help them get better, though it's hit and miss. Something like the darkspawn taint, all I can do is offer what aid I can and hope for the best."

"Then I'll definitely keep an eye out for them," promised Sagramor. Without hesitation, the elf knelt down before the sick mabari, meeting its eye through the bars of the pen. "Don't worry, boy. You'll be back to normal again in no time. I promise."

Perhaps mabari were truly as intelligent as the kennelmaster claimed, for the dog stretched out its front legs and almost…bowed its head in acknowledgement. "I promise," Sagramor repeated, giving a quick bow himself, then left, his course set. _And I keep my promises._

* * *

Alistair of the Grey Wardens sighed in frustration at the mage continued to harangue him. It certainly wasn't his fault that the Revered Mother had decided to make him a messenger, nor could he change his past to make it more palatable to the mage, who considered his mere _existence_ an insult, let alone the message he had to deliver. "I simply came to deliver a message from the Revered Mother, ser mage, she desires your presence."

"What Her Reverence desires is of no concern to me, boy," the mage shot back. "I am helping the Grey Wardens, by the king's orders, I might add!"

Biting back his irritation, Alistair tried to maintain a friendly tone. "Should have asked her to write a note?" he asked, almost flippantly. Instantly, he could hear Duncan chiding him in the back of his mind, reminding him of the importance of keeping good relations with the rest of Ferelden, and working together with all these diverse factions. _Too late now, I suppose._

The mage gasped in dismay at this disrespect, pride obviously stung. "Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!"

"So, I was harassing you, by delivering a message?" the young human replied snarkily. _Oh, Maker's breath, I've done it now. I really should have just stayed in bed this morning. 'Sorry, Duncan, but I'm feeling sick, I think I might have the Blight. Grey Wardens aren't affected by the Blight, you say? Well, make it yellow fever then.'_

"Your glibness does you no credit."

"And here I thought we were getting along so well!" Alistair crowed. "I was planning on naming one of my children after you. The _grumpy_ one." _How very mature, Alistair. Why Duncan didn't want you joining the other Wardens in battle is entirely beyond me. You really do need to learn when to be quiet._

A snigger, barely stifled, cut into the argument. Out of the corner of his eye, Alistair saw an elf about his age, possessing both a greatsword and Warden tabard, smirking despite himself. _Oh, wonderful, a recruit. This is hardly the best first impression I've ever made. It could be worse, I suppose. I could be standing around without any pants on, _Alistair mused, resisting the urge to double-check. If the nineteen years of his life had taught him anything, it was that he had exactly that kind of ill luck…

* * *

"Enough!" the mage barked, eager to have Alistair out of his sight. "I'll speak to the woman if I must. Get out of my way, fool!" he snapped at Sagramor as he barrelled past. Shaking his head at the display, the elf walked forward to meet the Grey Warden Alistair. When Duncan sent him to find the Warden, Sagramor assumed that the man in question was some kind of drillmaster, the sort of fellow to enforce discipline upon his subordinates with curses and fists. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Alistair was a young man about his age, perhaps a little bit older, closer to a new recruit like himself than a veteran soldier. His blonde hair had been cut short in an efficient military style, while faint stubble grew on the chin of his warm, smiling face. The young human wore his splintmail armour comfortably, and wore a steel longsword at his side and a large kite shield over his back, and like the rest of the Wardens, displayed their blue and grey tabard with pride. "You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together," Alistair said with a cheeky smirk, moving to greet the elf. "Am I right?"

"I know what you mean," Sagramor remarked dryly, remembering his conversation with Loghain.

"It's like a party! We could all stand in a circle and hold hands, maybe sing some jolly campfire tunes! That would certainly give the darkspawn something to think about."

"Might work. I have a terrible singing voice," rasped Sagramor. "It'll strike them dead on the spot."

The human gave a short, relieved laugh. "Ha-ha! Finally, someone agrees with my plans, dumb as they are. I don't suppose you happen to be another mage."

Daveth's description of Alistair rang out in his mind, and Sagramor steeled himself for some vulgar anti-mage bigotry. "Would that be a problem?"

"Hardly, no. I just always like to know what the odds are of being turned into a toad at given moment. I'm strange like that. You must be the new recruit Duncan had found in Denerim… Sagramor, right?" he asked, snapping his fingers as the name came to him. "I apologize; I should have recognized you right away from the description he gave me."

"No harm done. You must be Alistair then."

"Yes, that's me," the young human admitted sheepishly. "As the junior member of the Order, I'll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining. Afraid you didn't catch me at my best there, what with the mage and all; wasn't exactly a good first impression."

"I was wondering about that actually. What was the problem?"

"With the mage? Well, the Circle is here at the King's request, and the Chantry doesn't like that one bit. Which puts me in an awkward position; I was once a templar, you see."

"Daveth had mentioned that, but I thought templars joined for life," questioned Sagramor.

"Well, technically, I wasn't actually a templar," Alistair elaborated. "I had gone through all the training, but Duncan recruited me into the Wardens before I took my final vows. It's just as well, really. I'm not exactly the Chantry type; they want obedient and unquestioning soldiers to serve in the templars, and I'm…not. Besides, I think I could do a lot more good as a Grey Warden rather than sitting in a temple somewhere. Here, I have a chance to really make a difference, to make the world a better place."

"That's a very noble sentiment, Alistair," Sagramor said, looking at the human with newfound respect. "I know where you're coming from; I've been given an opportunity the likes of which few of the Alienage folk see, and I don't plan on wasting it, especially when I can use it to help others."

"Sounds like we'll get along just fine," stated Alistair, feeling much more assured. "Anyways, I'm sure the Revered Mother meant it as an insult, sending me to the mages as a messenger, and he picked right up on that. I never would have agreed to help her, but Duncan says that we're all to work together against the darkspawn. Guess he didn't give them the same speech. Anyways, if you're here now, then Duncan's probably ready to get things started. We should head back."

"Agreed," said Sagramor, falling in step with the other Warden as the two made for Duncan's billet. It was some distance from the western ramparts, so the elf took the time to quiz his new companion. "Alistair, could you tell me more about this Joining ritual? Duncan told me a great deal about the darkspawn and the Wardens on the journey here, but for some reason, he never mentioned this."

"Well, I can't tell you much. I'm sorry, but it's one of the bigger secrets of the Order."

"_One_ of?"

"I'm sorry," Alistair repeated, deliberately avoiding his gaze. "It's secret for a reason, and rather dangerous, but that's all I'm allowed to tell you. I'm sure you'll get through it just fine. Duncan wouldn't have recruited you if he didn't think you could handle it, or the life of a Warden."

The elf sighed, disappointed. He had wanted to know a bit more about what he was getting into, but Alistair would not be moved. He'd just have to keep his wits and courage about him, whatever the challenge. "Have you known Duncan long then?"

"Somewhat. I met him face-to-face when he recruited me about six months ago, but I had heard of him before that. He was one of the first Grey Wardens brought into Ferelden after King Maric rescinded the Order's exile, and he's been leading us ever since. He's a good man; tough but fair, and I owe him a lot."

"How so?"

"Duncan… he was the first person who actually cared about what I wanted. I had been given to the Chantry at a young age, probably because my guardians couldn't think of anywhere else to put me. He actually stopped and asked what I wanted out of life, and a few hours after I gave him my answer, he gave me my tabard," Alistair explained, looking down on the blue-and-grey griffon livery with pride.

"Sounds like you made a good impression on him. He doesn't seem to be the sort to recruit simply out of sentiment."

"Yes, I think you're right, or at least, I hope you are. Duncan did say that my training for fighting mages would double against fighting darkspawn, especially the emissaries. So far, I haven't any reason to doubt him." The human's brown eyes swung back to him, questioningly. "He's a good man, and makes do with what he has, and that includes me, I guess."

"That was my impression as well," Sagramor added. "He asks a lot, but he's nothing he wouldn't expect of himself. You said you were given to the Chantry?"

"Yes, that's how many people join the templars, actually. Orphans, cast-offs, younger sons of the nobility who have little hope of inheritance. The Chantry likes to recruit young, you see, and train people in seclusion so they're more willing to accept orders. It wasn't what I would have chosen, but I came to appreciate the training itself after a while. Besides, my guardians weren't willing to have me back in any event."

"What happened to your parents then, if I may ask?" Sagramor gently inquired.

"My mother was a serving girl at Redcliffe Castle; she died giving birth to me. As for my father… well, he's dead, let's put it at that."

The elf winced at the abrupt response. "My apologies."

"Don't worry; it's not your fault. And on the subject of our pasts, the Wardens have an unofficial rule: your past is your own, and has no bearing on your service with us. A lot of people come to the Wardens running from something, or discarding old loyalties; some even consider their old lives dead once they finish the Joining. If you don't want to discuss it, you don't have to." Alistair gave a small shrug as if it was no concern of his.

"I appreciate that, thank you," replied Sagramor, genuinely grateful. The horror of his wedding day and the guilt surrounding it were too keen, too fresh to discuss, even with a good-natured man like Alistair. He had let his past cloud his judgement despite himself; the elf had expected a fanatical mage-hater and discovered a very earnest and generous fellow instead. It was a lesson in open-mindedness that he vowed to take to heart.

A few minutes' walk brought the two to Duncan's personal camp, the Warden-Commander standing next to a roaring bonfire along with Jory and Daveth. "Ah, you found Alistair, did you?" Duncan remarked dryly. "Then we can begin at once, assuming of course, you're finished riling up mages, Alistair."

"What can I say?" Alistair jested, trying not to wilt under Duncan's stern gaze. "The Revered Mother ambushed me. The way she wields guilt, they should stick her in the army."

A dark eyebrow rose questioningly. "She forced you to sass the mage, did she?" came the disbelieving inquiry. "You know as well as I that we cannot afford to antagonize anyone, not at this critical stage."

"Of course, Duncan, I apologize," Alistair said dutifully, having heard this refrain before.

"Good. Now then, the four of you will be descending into the Korcari Wilds to perform two tasks," Duncan explained, drawing forth three valuable-looking glass vials from a pouch at his belt and passing them to the recruits. "First, you are to fill each of these vials with darkspawn blood, one for each recruit."

Taking the vial gently so as not to damage it, Sagramor immediately spotted the glimmer of magical runes etched into the glasswork and the brass cap, cold to his touch. "What is the blood for? Some sort of battle trophy?"

"For the Joining itself," Duncan answered. "I'll explain more once you've returned. Secondly, there was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain and garrison such a remote holding. It has come to our attention that several scrolls were left behind, magically sealed to protect them. Alistair, I want you and the recruits to retrieve them if you can."

"A bunch of old scrolls?" scoffed Daveth. "Anything important?"

"Why, interested in pawning them off?" Jory demanded, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Just asking a question," the rogue shot back. "Bound to be plenty of darkspawn in the Wilds, and other dangers. Just want to make sure some ratty old parchment is worth us potentially getting killed."

"They are old treaties, as a matter of fact, dating back to the Second Blight," explained Duncan patiently. "They contain promises of support to the Grey Wardens, binding oaths of troops and support in the event of a Blight. With so many having forgotten the Order's importance and the threat of the darkspawn, it would be good to have something to remind them with."

"If they're so valuable, then I don't understand why they were abandoned, Duncan," said Sagramor. "Surely such documents would be a prize worth keeping?"

"It was assumed that, after the outpost was abandoned, they would be retrieved at a later date, but it seems a great many assumptions have not come true," Duncan answered. "Still, the effort must be made. I do not doubt the King's convictions or the effectiveness of his troops, but no Blight has been beaten with little cost, and having additional allies we can call upon will prove valuable in the days to come. Watch over your charges, Alistair. Return quickly and safely."

"We will," came the response.

"Then may the Maker watch over you all," Duncan intoned with all solemnity. "I will be waiting here when you return."

So dismissed, Alistair and the recruits marched towards the wooden gate blocking the path that led into the Wilds. "I'll take the lead once we get down there, and keep watch for darkspawn," declared Alistair, strapping the heavy shield onto his left forearm.

"This archive, what's it look like?" asked Sagramor.

"It's an old Tevinter ruin from the height of the Imperium," explained Alistair, frowning in disgust at the thought of the magisters. "Before Andraste's time, they had built an outpost in the Wilds as a staging ground for slave raids, but when they saw what they were up against, abandoned it and established Ostagar. I think the Order took possession of it just after the First Blight. I should be able to find it, no problem. We'll have to be quick, though. If the King's scouts are right, then the horde will be massing for another assault tonight, and we don't want to be caught in their path."

"So we get in, get the blood and the scrolls, and get out. Sounds simply enough," said Sagramor.

"Of course! We are all Wardens, are we not?" boasted Jory, testing the edge of his own greatsword. "What foe could possibly stand against us?"

_What foe indeed?_ wondered Sagamor, setting his mind for the task at hand. Four men against any number of darkspawn, and whatever native dangers lurked within the Wilds, all prepared to destroy them given the slightest opportunity. _Come what may, I will not be found wanting._

* * *

_A/N: For the record, I am aware that in_ Mark of the Assassin, _Hawke mentions never having met the Warden, but honestly, it was simply too good of an opportunity to pass up simply because of one throw-away line. Decided to stick with the default female appearance for Hawke, since it looks really awesome, and decided to stick with the standard name simply because it calls to mind that appearance. I do have some plans for a _DA2 _novelization in the future, though it would definitely diverge from the game at several points. Again, that's just something for the future; right now, Sagramor has a Blight to contend with!__ :)_

_I do hope to have the next chapter up soon, time permitting; it's tax season up in Canada, so a lot of my time will be taken up with that, unfortunately. Still, you shouldn't have to wait forever._

_Hope you've all been enjoying the story thus far, as ever, any and all comments and suggestions are appreciated._


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